A Walk in Ashes
by Twyla Mercedes
Summary: A young,beautiful fashion designer has been brutally murdered. A glum but canny detective has been assigned the case. As he gathers more & more information he begins to fall under the spell of the victim;her charm, her loveliness, her kindness capture his heart. As he searches for the killer, he finds something extraordinary he doesn't expect. AU Rumbelle romance (I promise)
1. Chapter 1

**A Walk in Ashes**

**Chapter 1 – The Lieutenant**

_I shall never forget the weekend that Belle French died. The sun burned through the sky like a fireball consuming every hint of a consuming breeze, every possibility of respite, every bit of refreshing moisture. _

_It was the hottest Sunday in any August in my recollection, the heat rising from the streets and sidewalks so that the inhabitants felt like they were in one giant convection oven. _

_Bereft of my truest, best friend, I felt as if I were the only human being left in Asheville. _

_For with Belle's horrible death, I felt alone._

_Yes, I, Regina Mills, I was the only one who really knew her. . . _

Regina was sitting on her rooftop deck in her canopied hot tub with the laptop in front of her set on a wooden carousal. She was writing an update to her fantastically successful _I'm Glad I'm the Queen _blog. She'd piled her glossy black hair on top of her head and was sipping some red wine while she wrote. She was about half way finished with her own efforts at a eulogy when her personal _man of affairs_, Graham Hunter, interrupted her. He was a tall, slender young man dressed, at her preference, in snug blue jeans and a tight black t-shirt.

"It's another one of those policemen, ma'am. He's asking to see you," he notified her deferentially.

Regina rubbed her neck. _Damn, would they ever just move it along? _"Tell him to wait in the living room," she directed Graham. Regina would be able to see the officer through the French doors that led into her living room area. She watched Graham as he ushered the police officer in. Of course, it was another man.

She checked him out - as she checked out every man that came across her threshold, or across her path for that matter. He wasn't very tall, she noted first off. Ordinary features. Rather well dressed in a three piece suit, dark shirt, subdued power tie _had to be sweltering in this heat_. Walked with a pronounced limp, carried a cane.

She might have summarily dismissed him, yet, there was a certain grace to his movements, like a predator checking out a new territory. The man moved like a tiger, with a hidden strength and the promise of explosive power. She watched as he began examining things, not with any semblance of cultured appreciation for her finer possessions but with a policeman's cold, hard, objective regard. The ornate starburst mirror, the perfectly coifed white flowers in the Waterford crystal vase, the red Envy apples in the antique bronze bowl on the coffee table, the elegantly carved ebony fireplace mantel with the pearlescent marble statue of her favorite horse and . . . oh yes, now he was looking at her clock, her exquisite milk-glass, hand-painted floor clock set in a rosewood frame.

"There's only one other of those in existence," she called out to him, getting his attention. The policeman looked around and saw her in the hot tub. "You may have already noticed the other one. It's in Belle's apartment."

_In the very room where she was murdered. _Regina made no effort to get out of the hot tub.

The policeman stopped and looked out at her on the rooftop. He regarded her a moment, still standing inside the living room. Apparently he made up his mind and then he slowly walked on out to the deck to see her. He didn't hurry but he didn't dawdle either. He walked with a purpose, his cane a crutch that carried the threat of a weapon.

"Ms. Mills?" he asked.

"Ah, you recognize me. How splendid." She shifted in the hot tub so that he could probably tell that she wasn't wearing a bathing suit. "Sit down, please," she directed him towards one of the cushioned teak wooden chairs that were set near the tub. Set all around were a plethora, a near jungle, of potted plants giving the area a garden-like feel as well as some marginal protection from any prying eyes. She entertained out here often, her parties well known for their sophistication and exclusiveness.

"Nice little place you have here, Ms. Mills," the police officer said as he sat on the edge of the chair. He pulled out a pocket-sized spiral notebook and a throwaway Bic pen.

She gave him her patented throaty laugh, "It's lavish, but I call it home." She sat back with her arms resting on the edge of the tub. In a sad-sounding voice she said, "I assume you're here about the Belle French murder." She took a deep breath, focused her attention on her computer screen and began, "Yesterday morning, after Belle's body was found, I was questioned by Sergeants MacDoc and Sueno and I stated," Regina was now reading from her screen, "On Friday night, Belle was to meet me for a girl's night dinner. But she phoned and canceled our dinner at exactly 5:25. She was planning to go out of town to her mountain cabin for rest and renewal. After that I. . . "

The police officer was looking through his notebook, "You ate a lonely dinner and then got into your hot tub to read."

Regina nodded. "Exactly."

"Why did you write it down?" he asked her, frowning. "Afraid you'd forget it?"

"I am one of the most widely misquoted women in America. When my friends do it, I resent it. From Sergeants MacDoc and Sueno, I should find it intolerable. Hand me that towel, please, Mr. . .?"

"Gold, Lieutenant Gold," the police officer answered, complying with her request and handing her a plush deep red towel.

The name tickled her memory. "Gold? Gold! Not Rumford Gold from the siege of Swannanoa? With the drug dealer with the machine gun and ten hostages? That nutcase junkie had already killed three policemen! I told the story over a podcast and wrote in my blog about it! It made national news! You're the man with the leg full of lead!" she extolled the merits of the case while wrapping her hair in the towel.

The police officer grimaced but confirmed the story, "The man who walked right in, got shot up but still got the perp and saved the hostages? Yeah, that was me."

"You were a sergeant then, weren't you? Got a promotion out of it, I see."

Gold just looked at her without replying.

"I got a Pulitzer nomination out of it. Thanks," she remarked, then continued, "They don't usually send lieutenants, you did say you were a lieutenant? out on routine investigations, do they?" she was curious. _Why this officer?_

The police officer gazed around the rooftop garden. "I'm a lieutenant," he confirmed with her. "I guess this isn't considered a routine investigation." He gave her a half smile, a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes.

_He had nice eyes. Brown but there was a warmth and a depth to them like a fine whiskey. _

_A warmth like a banked furnace fire._

_And very fine whiskey._

Regina found herself smiling back at him. _Well, there might be hope for him yet, especially if she was in the mood for sardonic. She thought he might very well be a candidate for a little Wamsutta Watusi_.

Regina considered him like she considered everyone she met, _putting them on her scale of_ _whether or not they might be entertaining in the sack. This Lieutenant Gold was a definite maybe. _ "Well, well. Hand me my robe, please."

The man looked around and found the bathrobe. Regina could have reached it herself. He got up and retrieved it.

"You have a pretty good memory, Ms. Mills," he told her handing her the floor-length luxurious red velvet bathrobe. When he saw that she was about to stand up, he quickly turned his back to her, obviously disconcerted.

"I always liked the idea of the detective with the stainless steel shinbone," she purred at him, stepping out of the tub and wrapping the robe around herself.

"Oooh, you were the one that started that rumor," his eyes had narrowed in displeasure. "It's not correct, you know. My shinbone is more or less intact. It was my knee that was blown out," he told her. "But thanks . . . I guess. I hope you won't have any reason to change your mind about me."

"Have you got any more questions?" she walked around him now clothed wearing the floor length bathrobe with her hair still wet and dripping down her neck _she knew it was a sexy look, one of many that she had cultivated_ and went back into the living room. He followed her.

"Yeah, just one," and he consulted his little notebook again. "Two years ago, in your October blog, you started out writing a book review . . ."

"Yes, I believe it was _The Long Game_, excellent book," Regina told him.

He nodded, ". . . but at the bottom of the column you switched over to the Marion Forrest murder case."

"My, my," Regina had walked down the hall into her bedroom. She called back, "Are the processes of the creative mind now under the jurisdiction of the police?"

The police office ignored her and continued, "You said Forrest was rubbed out with a shotgun loaded with buckshot . . . the same way that Belle French was murdered night before last."

Regina, still in the bedroom, called back, "Did I?"

"Yeah. But Forrest was really killed with a forty-five."

Still back in her bedroom, Regina observed, "How ordinary. My version was obviously superior." She came out of the bedroom, rubbing her hair with a red towel. She had changed into black pants and a close fitting black top, one that showed her figure off to an advantage _just a shade less than what would be the socially acceptable allowance of cleavage_. "I never bother with details, you know."

The police officer looked at her and, after a moment, he answered, "Well, I do." He nodded at her and headed toward the door, "Thank you and so long."

Regina followed him, catching up to him before he got near the door, "Mind if I go with you?"

"What? What for?" he was confused by her question.

Regina shrugged, "Murder is my favorite crime. If you know anything about me, you know I write about it regularly." She gave him a brilliant smile, "And I know you'll have to visit everyone on your list of suspects. I'd love to study their reactions."

The police officer frowned at her, "You're on the list yourself, you know," he told her.

"Good. To find out that you'd overlooked me would have been a pointed insult."

The police officer gave her another one of his half smiles, "You're not the sort of woman one would overlook . . . or insult, Ms. Mills."

Regina paused a moment to refresh her Ruby Woo lipstick. Popping the black case back together she turned back to the police office, "Do you really suspect me?" _Any other man would have thought she was flirting with him._

"Yes ma'am," he replied.

"Lieutenant Gold, if you know anything about faces, look at mine," she paused giving him time to check over her stunning visage. "How singularly innocent I look this morning. Have you ever seen such candid eyes? such a placid expression, such a calm demeanor?"

"A tribute to your therapist or did you suck out the soul of a kindergarten teacher?"

Regina had to smile at his quip, "It does take a lot of control," she admitted "Try it sometime?"

He gave her a tight brief smile, "No, thanks."

Regina reached in the hall closet and pulled out a red burnt-out silk jacket to slip over her shoulders. She knew she didn't really need the jacket in the heat but also knew she looked particularly stunning in this outfit _it had been one that Belle had designed for her_.

"Were you in love with Belle French, Ms. Mills?" the police officer asked her abruptly.

When Regina didn't answer, Lieutenant Gold pursued the questioning, "Was she in love with you?"

Regina answered him slowly, genuinely, "Belle considered me the best connected, most supportive, most interesting woman she'd ever met. I was in complete accord with her on that point. She thought me also the kindest. . . the gentlest. . . the most sympathetic woman in the world. She thought of me as her mentor, her teacher, even her friend."

"And did you agree with her there, too?"

Regina shook her head, "Gold, you won't understand this . . . but because of Belle's regard I tried to become the kindest, the gentlest . . . the most sympathetic woman in the world."

There was a pause, "Have any luck?" Gold wasn't impressed.

Regina fluffed her hair before answering, "Let me put it this way. I should be sincerely sorry to see my neighbors' children devoured by wolves. I wouldn't have felt that way five years ago." She smiled again picking up a stylish leather tote bag was set near the door. "Shall we go?"

"Very well," he sighed.

"_He spoke in a gruff, commanding tone, obviously a man who was used to being obeyed_," she narrated into a tiny voice recorder she had pulled out from the tote bag.

Gold stopped and turned on her, "You can't do that. Don't write your damn blog while you're with me."

"_Oh, definitely used to being obeyed_," she gave him her most seductive smiles. "_He began making demands right away, his keen insights and experience spewing forth as he lent his edgy intellect into solving this heinous murder_," she continued narrating. "You are going to give me sooo much material." She watched his rear end as he limped away to his next stop. _Nice._

Gold hadn't wanted this job. They had, yet again, talked him out of his self-imposed retirement to take this case on. W_ell, maybe they'd blackmailed him with the threat of pulling his retirement check to take on the bloody case_. He'd wanted nothing more than to be left alone. But, he had the experience, the understanding, the insight to tackle this highly publicized, highly sensitive murder investigation. His background in homicide and then in the special crimes unit that he had created from the ground up make him the most qualified to manage this case.

_So they told him. _

He would have preferred to be sitting on his back deck drinking himself, yet again, into oblivion but, no, that wasn't going to happen now. Here he was, up, limping around in this suffocating heat, talking to this overly self-important local celebrity about some little cunt dress designer who'd gotten herself blown away.

Sad for sure, but worth dragging him out of his self-imposed, liquor-addled exile?

He didn't think so. He had to take away time from his duel diets of ramen and self-loathing to interact with these people. Well, nothing to be done for this except to take the next step. The quicker he solved this, the quicker he could be back sitting on his deck drinking good Scottish whiskey.

It was in one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in downtown Asheville. It looked out on Wall Street and hailed as one of the town's newest condominiums. The starting price in this particular building was in the mid 800,000's. It required a code to enter – apparently the police department had gotten one for Gold as he first checked in his ubiquitous little notebook and then tapped something in. Regina, still on his heels, rode with him up the elevator equipped with cameras. They went up to the penthouse suite. These apartments went for a cool seven figures. Regina blatantly looked the officer over in the artificial light of the elevator. Gold made a point of looking straight ahead.

_He was definitely a cool one and apparently impervious to her charms. _

_Well, damn._

They stepped out of the elevator onto the top floor. The hallway was a testimony to calmness, carpeted with deep plush lemon cream, the walls flock-papered with a formal pattern done in tones of dulce de leche. Gold tapped at the red-stained door of one of the four apartments on the top floor. An exceedingly well-dressed woman opened the door.

Gold promptly showed his badge.

"Oh yes, Lieutenant Gold, I've been expecting you," and the woman stepped aside to let them in, her perfume, an amalgam of syrupy sweetness and hard-edged oriental scents, assailed their nostrils as they walked by.

This was yet another manicured, well-kept, professionally decorated room. This one was decorated with white lace, golden tapestries and red velvet – hyper-feminine, overstuffed . . . somewhat cloying . . . and over-powering. The room seemed dark . . . still . . . airless when compared to the bright, bustling world outside the building. It suited the woman who'd answered the door, an aging beauty with dark red hair.

"Please have a seat," the woman directed them into a sitting area.

"Good morning, Ms. Hart. Thanks for seeing me." The police officer went into the sitting area but remained standing.

The woman turned to Regina, "Regina, darling."

"Mother dearest," Regina responded and the two women gave each other a _pro forma _embrace.

The police officer waited for the two women to finish greeting each other and then cleared his throat, "Ms. Hart, I do appreciate you seeing me this morning. You may already be aware that I've been assigned the Belle French case. Ma'am, would you please sit down."

Ms. Hart smiled at the officer and floated slowly down onto her expensive tapestried couch, sinking into the cushions. She leaned back on one of the red velvet cushions arranging herself so that it put her in the best light. _The detective realized that the generally dim light allowed for Ms. Hart to be seen more favorably than in a normally lit room. The darkness muted the inevitable lines of age and turmoil._ She was wearing a flowing red dress that complimented the room. The dress was cinched at her waist. It showed off her lush figure in a positively tempting manner. She gestured to the officer for him to sit down in one of the red velvet upholstered chairs.

The Lieutenant took a seat on the edge of the chair, obviously uncomfortable in the soporific surroundings. He continued, "Thank you ma'am. I have the reports from Officers MacDoc and Sueno, but there are a few more questions I'd like to ask."

"Certainly," Ms. Hart responded, her eyes flicking appreciatively over the police officer's trim form. "I'll do anything I can to help." She touched her hair flipping it over her shoulder.

_Next: The engagement_

_Belle's apartment_


	2. Engagement

** A Walk in Ashes**

_Gold, a self-deprecating homicide detective who's been brought out of semi-retirement to investigate the death of a well-known fashion designer, has met and interviewed her self-proclaimed best friend, Regina Mills, a famous blogger and writer. She has shared what she knows of Miss French's last activities and volunteered to accompany Gold on his investigation – they have ended up at Regina's mother's apartment. _

_(A.N. Yeah, I know this is hardly proper police procedure – let it go, please)._

**Chapter Two – Engagement**

Ms. Hart had evaluated the police detective, her eyes flicking appreciatively over the police officer's trim form. "I'll do anything I can to help," she said in a husky feminine voice. She touched her hair, fluffing it up.

"You were Miss French's attorney?" he asked either ignoring or not noticing her salacious look.

"Why yes. After Regina took up with her and her little business began to take off, Belle came to me for legal help. I advised her to form a corporation and drew up the paperwork. I helped her with other legal matters too. "

"You invested with her corporation?" he asked making a little note.

"I did. It was like buying Xerox at the IPO. Best investment I ever made. Made back my original investment and continued to have money coming in," Cora said with some pride.

"Were you fond of Miss French, Ms. Hart?" He was looking right into her eyes.

"Why, I adored the girl." Ms. Hart broke eye contact and reached over to the table next to her. "It was refreshing for me to be able to go to her for a couture design. I was one of her first clients and she always remembered that. She understood me and my personal style like no one else. This dress was one of her efforts. Such a treasure. Cigarette?" She held up an elegant marble box that she had flipped open for him to make a selection.

"No, thank you," Lieutenant Gold was all business, his glance not wavering. "You collapsed when you identified the body."

Regina, who'd settled herself on the wide arm of the sofa next to him, spoke up, "We can all quite understand that. A shotgun loaded with buckshot, close range. Eeuu."

"Not very nice to look at," agreed the Lieutenant.

"It was horrible!" Ms. Hart told them, resting her hand on her chest and closing her eyes as if to erase the ghastly image.

The lieutenant nodded and turned to another page in his book. "Her maid, Bessie Potts? I suppose she was devoted to Miss French?"

"Oh, she worshiped her. She'd been with Belle for several years. She discovered the body you know. It must have been awful," Ms. Hart told him.

"And what do you know about the people that worked for her, Jefferson Hatfield, Ruby Wolfe, Lacey Redfern, Ashley Sweep?" he asked.

Ms. Hart looked slightly confused. "I believe the Hatfield character is one of her designers and the others. . . aren't they models?" She shook her head, "I really don't know them. I always dealt directly with Belle."

The lieutenant flipped back to another page and abruptly changed his tack. "Did you approve of Miss French's upcoming marriage to Mr. Jones?" He made eye contact with her.

Ms. Hart drew herself up. "What are you getting at? Why shouldn't I approve?" she asked sharply.

Lieutenant Gold shrugged, "I don't know. What is your relationship with Miss French's fiancé Mr. Jones?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Ms. Hart was becoming increasingly offended. She was sitting upright now.

"What I mean is he's been a frequent guest in your home." Now his questioning had become incisive, scalpel-like in its precision. "Is he an acquaintance? A friend? A lover?"

"This is beginning to assume some fabulous aspects, Mother," Regina observed (rather gleefully) from the sidelines.

"Oh shut up, Regina!" Ms. Hart spat at her daughter and then turned back to Lieutenant Gold. "Just what are you driving at?" Her tone was not friendly.

"The truth, Ms. Hart. Are you in love with Mr. Jones, Miss French's fiance?" he was looking at her, looking her directly in the eyes, his own eyes steady and unblinking.

"Why, no. I'm . . I'm very fond of Mr. Jones, if you must know," she admitted, breaking his gaze and looking away. "Everyone is."

"I'm not, I'll be hanged if I am," Regina snorted. "He's a smarmy fuck-wit."

Ms. Hart turned on her daughter, "Oh don't be so annoying, Regina!"

"Did you give Mr. Jones money?" Lieutenant Gold was relentless.

Ms. Hart was more guarded. "What do you mean?"

He checked his notes. "A couple of checks went through your account endorsed by him. One on July second for five thousand. One on July seventeenth for three thousand." He looked up expectantly.

"Oh that . . ." Ms. Hart hesitated. "I. . . I'd asked him to do some shopping for me. That's all." She waved off the entire affair.

"This Jones seems to be a very obliging fellow," Gold noted.

Regina leaned over to Gold and said conspiratorially, "You have no idea."

The police officer continued looking down at his notebook, "Now for some time you've also been withdrawing various amounts in cash."

"On occasion. . . " Ms. Hart began.

"On occasion? Actually at a pretty fast clip," Gold said to her looking up from his notebook, obviously prepared to offer examples.

"Yes, well, I needed that money," Ms. Hart explained, cautiously.

"The day you took out one thousand, Mr. Jones deposited one thousand. When you withdrew three thousand, he deposited three thousand."

Regina leaned in, "Maybe he was blackmailing her, got some naughty pictures of her buying drug store cosmetics, scarfing down a double-bacon cheese burger, playing mahjong with Satan," she suggested, obviously enjoying her mother's discomfort.

Ms. Hart stood up, "Must I be insulted like this?"

"I am sorry, Ms. Hart, but I have to find out about these things," the police lieutenant locked eyes with her again.

"Killian needed some money and I lent it to him," she explained sharply. "That's all. After all, it is _my_ money!" She added defiantly, "I suppose I can do as I please with it."

The lieutenant shrugged, "Sure, of course. Your money. Do as you please." And he consulted his notebook yet again. "Now, on Friday night, Ms. Hart, you stayed home alone all evening?"

"Yes," she answered, sitting down again.

"Any witnesses?" he asked.

"Not really. My man, Smee, gets Friday nights off," she told him.

"Did you know Miss French was planning to go up to her cabin?"

"No. I knew she usually had supper with Regina and they would talk over prospects and businessy stuff."

"Uh huh." Gold looked back through his book, "Mr. Jones went to a concert alone. Why didn't you go with him?"

"Because he hadn't asked me," she said shortly.

Just then a tall, dark and handsome young man entered the room, coming into the opulent living room from one of the back rooms. He was dressed in clean cut khakis and a brand name polo shirt.

Regina spoke up, "We were just talking about you, Jones," she cheerfully told him. "What a coincidence, finding you here with Mother." She gestured towards the police office. "This is Lieutenant Gold. He's the officer investigating Belle's murder."

The young man smiled and came over to the officer.

"Oh, how do you do Lieutenant Gold," Mr. Jones offered his hand to the police officer who, in deep consultation with his notebook, didn't notice it.

"I didn't know you were here, Mr. Jones," Lieutenant Gold told him finally looking up from the little notebook, glancing at the hand, then looking back down at his notebook.

Jones looked contrite. "As a matter of fact, Cora was a dear and let me come here to rest. The air conditioning in my little apartment has not been able to manage this heat and then there have been all these people, the reporters and the telephone . . . the telephone has not stopped ringing." He turned towards the police officer. "You know how it is, Lieutenant. I've hardly slept a wink since it happened."

Regina slid down to the sofa cushions and slouched, "Not sleeping, huh? Tell me Gold, is that a sign of guilt or innocence?"

Jones glared at her but then turned back to the police officer. "I'm at your disposal, Lieutenant. I'm as eager to find the murderer as you are." He sat down across from Gold.

"I do have a few questions for you," and Gold was thumbing through his little notebook again.

"Well I hope I'm not on the list of possible suspects," Jones began. "What possible motive could I have for killing Belle? She and I were going to be married this Thursday, you know."

Regina sat up and spoke clearly, "Married!? No, he doesn't know that and neither do you. . . or I . . or anyone else alive!"

"What do you mean?" Gold was about to flip to a new notebook page but stopped to look at Regina.

Regina stood up, "Belle had not definitely made up her mind to marry him. She told me so herself last Friday when she called up to cancel our dinner." She paced away from the group sitting together and turned back to them. "As a matter of fact, that was _why_ she was going up to her mountain cabin - to think the whole marriage thing over." Regina was smug now. "She was an extremely kind woman, but I was always sure that she would have never thrown her life away on some male beauty in distress."

Jones drew himself up and spoke to Gold, "I suppose you've heard losers rant before. . . "

Regina finished for him, "and the guilty, huh?"

Jones sighed and turned back to Gold, "Would you like a drink, Lieutenant?"

"That's very thoughtful – the perfect host," Regina shook her head and sat down again.

"Regina!" Ms. Hart reprimanded her.

"Well, you'd almost think that this was his own home," Regina snapped back.

"Killian knows how distracted I am," Ms. Hart came to his rescue then turned back to the police officer. "Now, would you like a drink, Lieutenant?"

Gold stood. "Thank you Ms. Hart. But I've got to be going."

"But Lieutenant. I, well, I rather thought you'd want to ask me some more questions," Killian spoke to him.

Gold turned to a new page. "I did. Had you asked Miss French to the concert Friday night?"

"I did," Jones responded, "but, at the last moment, she told me that she wanted to keep her Girl's Night dinner engagement with Ms. Mills."

"So you went by yourself?" Gold asked him.

"Uh hum," Killian answered.

Gold nodded and took a note. "And what did they play at the concert Friday night?" he asked.

Jones thought a moment. "Oh, it was some classical interpretations of the Beatles' music, among others," he answered.

Gold wrote it down in his notebook. "And do you have a key to Miss French's apartment?" he asked the young man.

"Of course not. Belle had some rather old-fashioned notions about that sort of thing."

Gold wrote something down in his notebook. "How about one for her house up in the mountains?"

"No, but I believe there is one in her apartment," Jones told him.

Gold paused for a brief moment and then nodded, "Okay, I'll have a look there."

"Please, perhaps I can help you there," Jones spoke up. "I do know where she kept many things in her apartment."

Gold considered, narrowing his eyes, and finally shrugged, "All right. Thank you so much for your time." He nodded at Cora and headed for the door.

"Be seeing you, Mother," Regina said as she followed the lieutenant out the door. Jones followed them.

"Aren't we taking a car? It's really hot," Jones asked as they walked out into the street. Stepping out from the air-conditioned sanctity of the condo onto the baking concrete of the city was like stepping into a furnace.

Gold shrugged. "I'm walking," he told the two.

Regina and Jones looked at each other and, connecting in their mutual misery, they nonetheless followed the determined police office.

"He's just doing this to be mean," Regina commented, complaining to Jones.

She continued talking as they walked behind him, intoning into her pocket recorder, "_Eschewing comfort, ever conscious of tax-payer dollar, the policeman walked the _oh hell, how many blocks is it?_ blocks down to Belle French's apartment."_ She earned yet another glare from Lieutenant Gold. The three walked up Battery to turn right onto Haywood, then down to Patton and then the half block to Church and down to the old apartment building that housed Belle's apartment.

Belle French's city apartment was not in quite as exclusive a building as Cora Hart's. Far from being a new building, but quite near the downtown area, it had been renovated, the original brick structure built in 1928. It still retained much of the charm (and lack of amenities) as the original building.

As they began the walk up the three flights of stairs to Belle's top floor apartment, Gold stopped on the first floor. They were in an un-airconditioned stairwell and he'd stopped in front of a large open window. Gold examined the window and using his Bic pen, he pushed against the screen, finding that it had been unhooked. He looked out through the window and noted the drop to the ground was less than six feet. He made a note in his notebook.

As he was looking and making notes, Regina was checking her phone. "Here's the latest" and she read, "Famous designer victim of brutal slaying."

Gold looked at her, some level of disgust reflected on his face before turning and continuing up the staircase. Here the hallways were softly lit. The floors were well worn dark wooden planks and the walls painted a pale matte blue. Once at the top of the stairs, Gold went through the police tape and opened the door with a passkey.

_This was his first time actually in The Apartment. It was less formally decorated than the other two opium dens . . . uh, apartments, he had just been in. The furniture was an eclectic pastiche of delicate, fine antiques and elegant modern pieces. There was a small vintage writing desk where a modern sleek (pink) computer sat, a plush sofa (not an antique) with a fake fur throw draped on one end, and bookcases – good lord, bookcases that went floor to ceiling, bookcases that were crammed with books – art books, craft books, classic literature, text books, cookbooks, modern fiction and nonfiction, paperbacks and hardbacks. There was also a stone fireplace with gas logs set off by a solid oak mantle. Various candlesticks were set on the mantle and in the fireplace set with candles of different widths and heights. The candles had all been lit at some point. The place managed to give off a comfy, welcoming feeling, lived-in but not too cluttered, feminine but not too frilly. _

Regina looked around. "I think someone probably rang the doorbell and as she opened the door, a shot was fired."

"Why would you think that?" Gold asked her.

"She fell backwards. The body was found on its back with her face blown off right here," Regina pointed to the floor near the door. _It hadn't been hard for her to find. The police tape was still hither and yon in the area. The blood stains were still on the floor. The splatter pattern was still on the walls._

"I didn't think you'd been up here since the shooting," Gold mentioned.

"I haven't been, but I got to see the police photos when I went with Mommy Dearest to identify the body."

Gold looked at Regina with another flicker of disgust. "I guess I better try and find that key."

"Gold, tell me, why did they have to photograph her in that horrible condition?" Regina asked. She asked this question sincerely.

Gold shrugged, "When a knish gets killed, she doesn't worry about how she looks."

"A what?" Regina didn't recognize the term used in that manner, but thought likely that it was pejorative. She quickly googled the term and it was her turn to glare at him. "Look around this apartment," Regina directed his attention to Belle's portrait which was hanging above the fire place mantle. "Look at her." While he stood gaping at the large painting, Regina went and turned on a sleek well-preserved old-style record player. Soft guitar music and a raspy folksinger began a song.

Gold looked over the large portrait that was set in the over-mantel above the fire place with a certain level of pure male appreciation. He gave the portrait his complete consideration. The woman was a gorgeous brunette with just a hint of red in her hair. She had startling blue eyes and was wearing a snug fitting blue dress that caressed all her curves. And did she have curves. "That's her? Not bad," he finally admitted. _Not bad at all._

"Gaston was in love with her when he painted it, but he never captured her vibrancy, her warmth." Regina watched Gold as he began to methodically go through each and every drawer in the elegant little writing desk that was set in the living room. Then he set about examining Belle's pink computer, then picked up and examined a white leather-bound volume. Regina asked him, "Have you ever been in love?"

"There's my bitch of an ex-wife from a teenage marriage and a witch from Montreat once got a pair of diamond earrings out of me," he answered her without looking up. "Sooooo . . . no."

Regina rolled her eyes, "Ever know a woman who wasn't a 'bitch' or a 'witch' or a . . . 'knish?'"

"I use other more colorful names in my head," Gold admitted with a smirk. "But no, not really." Gold then began going through Belle's liquor cabinet, stopping occasionally to write down different things in his little notebook. He continued talking, "The ex-wife ran off with some rich bum who'd just made a fortune pirating software. The one who took the earrings from me, pawned them, bought some fancy red shoes and went off for flying lessons with some big ape she'd just met. They're all looking for the same thing. Would you mind turning that off?" He glanced over at the record player.

"Why? Don't you like it?" Jones had stepped up to turn off the record player. "It was one of Belle's favorites. She preferred classic rock and roll and folk music. She had an extensive collection of old vinyl records by the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Simon and Garfunkel."

Gold was now going through the bookcases set floor to ceiling, "You know a lot about music?" he asked Jones.

"I don't know a lot about anything, but I know a little about practically everything," Jones told him.

"The perfect Southern gentleman," Regina carped.

Now Gold was examining the books on the shelves. For some time now Regina had been watching him pick over the apartment, like a rat in a meth lab, skittering here and there, never quite settling down. At the moment Gold was searching through a magazine box. The first magazine he picked out was an old _Belle Armoire_ that featured a cover photograph of Miss French in an amazing lace attire that she must have pieced together from antique crocheted doilies. He glanced through the other magazines and caught her name and/or her picture on the cover of several of them. _These must have been magazines that had featured articles on her._

"Yeah," Gold finally replied and returned to his questioning, "Tell me, why did you say they played Beatles' music at the concert Friday night?"

Jones didn't answer and Gold pressed him, "I checked. They were playing orchestra renditions of several classic groups, like the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac and a couple others, but no Beatles."

Jones gave him a chagrined smile, "I suppose I should have told you in the first place. I'd been working on the advertising campaign for Belle's new clothing line. Well, we'd been working so hard, I. . . I just couldn't keep my eyes open. I didn't hear a note at the concert. I fell asleep."

"Next, he'll produce photographic evidence of his dreams," said Regina snottily.

Jones shrugged, "I know it sounds suspicious, but I'm resigned to that by now. I'm a natural-born suspect just because I'm not the conventional type."

Gold glanced at Jones, "I wouldn't worry about it, Mr. Jones. It sounds reasonable. I fall asleep at concerts myself."

**Thanks to all those who are already following and those who have favorited this story. A special thank you to my early reviewers on this story (some of whom needed reassurance that this was a for-real-and-for-true Rumbelle Romance – it is, I promise): ****Tinuviel Undomiel, onlyinyourdreams77, orthankg1, Robin4, jewel415, MyraValhallah, Grace5231973, Erik'sTrueAngel, deweymay, OneMagician and Chauchi.  
**

_NEXT Jones implicates himself_

_Gold interviews Belle's employees_

_Gold joins Regina for lunch_


	3. Interviews

A Walk in Ashes

_Gold has endured a caustic interview with a defensive Cora Hart (Regina's mother) who is giving large sums of money to Killian Jones, the victim's would-be fiancé. Jones has revealed that he was engaged to be married to Miss French. Regina contradicts him and shares that Belle was having doubts about the marriage and had planned to go to her cabin Friday evening (the time she was killed) to re-think her commitment. Gold, accompanied by Regina and Killian, go the Miss French's apartment where he finds something out of place in the stairwell. There at the apartment, Gold sees a portrait of Belle French for the first time. He is clearly taken with her beauty. He begins a methodical search of the apartment._

**Chapter 3 Interviews**

Jones has confessed that he went to sleep at the concert he attended Friday night and doesn't remember what pieces were played.

Gold glanced at Jones, "I wouldn't worry about it, Mr. Jones. It sounds reasonable. I fall asleep at concerts myself. I'm more curious why you didn't invite some other woman to go with you in Miss French's place."

Jones looked properly embarrassed. "I thought about it but I am . . . was an engaged man and I didn't think it would look right."

"But okay for you to show up by yourself?" Gold persisted.

"Expensive tickets. I didn't want them to totally go to waste."

"No buddies that would go?"

Killian smiled. "I don't have very many male friends," he confessed.

Regina groaned and spoke up, "You found that key yet?"

Gold shook his head, "No, I've looked for it in the desk and on these bookshelves."

"It may be in the kitchen," said Jones and disappeared, quickly returning, "Yes, she had it on one of the hooks where she would put her car keys."

Gold produced a slow smile, "I knew there must be one around somewhere."

Regina had caught the man's smile and spoke up, "The police are very obsessive about their inventories, aren't they? I'm betting that key wasn't on the list of things that were hanging from the hooks in the kitchen yesterday."

"And now it's magically appeared," said Gold. He turned to Jones, "You put it there, didn't you?"

Jones looked at his shoes, "Yeah, yes I did," he admitted.

"Why?" Gold asked him.

"It's just that I didn't want to give it to you while Regina was present."

"Oh, really?" Gold questioned him.

"Well, she's determined to convict me for Belle's death. I really didn't want to involve her or give her any more ammunition to use against me," Jones confessed.

Regina bristled, "I'm already involved! Belle was my absolute best friend and I was hers! You have private reasons, no doubt, to lie about the key? You feel you have to make the cops believe that you didn't have any way to get into Belle's apartment Friday night?"

"Regina, for your own good, I'm warning you to stop implying that I had anything to do with Belle's death," Jones was clearly getting angry.

"Very well," began Regina waving him off, but then turning on him, "I'll stop implying. I'll make a direct statement."

"You're wanting him to think I killed Belle because she broke off the engagement," Jones was bristling and the two were facing off.

"I couldn't have said it better," Regina nearly snarled at the man.

"Well, maybe you killed her," Jones told her. "You couldn't stand that she'd rejected you for a man."

"There would have had to have been a man involved for that to have happened!" Regina shouted at him.

"I'll hang onto that key," Gold spoke up, ignoring their altercation and holding out his hand. "Now do either of you have any idea where her car keys might be?"

Regina and Jones looked at each other.

"How about her car?" Gold pursued the topic. "We have that she's the registered owner of a little blue Aston Martin Vantage, hardly a common car. But despite a thorough search of the lot and nearby streets and parking garages, we haven't located it."

"You think the killer might have stolen her car?" Regina asked.

"No idea. They would have had to have known what she drove." Gold added, "and where she kept her car keys and where she kept the car for that matter." He looked at them both but when neither of them made a reply, he shrugged. "Now, I've got some more people to interview," he said cutting off any more remarks that Regina or Jones might have made.

"Shall we all go?" Regina asked.

"Absolutely not," Gold said in a tone that brooked no argument. "You two - out of here. This is still a crime scene."

"Listen, if you have to go out alone, then go," Regina's voice was soft and sultry. "But why don't you meet up with me at 1:00 at Cúrate for lunch? I'll treat."

"I'll see," Gold said without promising. Going down the stairs, he made Jones and Regina walk in front of him as if they were school children in trouble. Then he set off on foot.

"Looks like he's going to Belle's shop," Regina observed.

"Doesn't look like he's going to succumb to your charms," Jones remarked.

"Or yours," replied Regina.

"Whatever. Going to her shop is a waste of time. None of those people would've wanted Belle dead," Jones said.

"I guess he has to do a thorough job of it." Regina watched the man limp down the street. _Damn, he would be fun to nail to a mattress. Would like to see that smug superior attitude crack. Maybe make good use of those handcuffs he probably carried._

Belle's little shop on Haywood was Prêt á Porter, a ladies clothing shop which somehow managed to be both upscale and inviting. There were comfy chairs in the front of the shop for gentlemen to sit on while their wives and girlfriends leisurely shopped. Usually one of the younger salesgirls would provide the gentlemen guests with a drink, warm or cold, depending on the weather. It was hot today, so the going drink was iced strawberry lemonade. A salesgirl, dressed in chic black, looked over Gold and clearly wasn't sure what category to put the man in.

He hadn't come _in_ with a female companion. Perhaps he was someone who would be at Prêt á Porter shopping _for _a female companion? _He certainly didn't look like someone who be there shopping for himself._

"Can I help you?" she asked with a smile on her face.

"Yes, dearie. I need to speak to . . . ." he consulted his little notebook, "A Mr. Jefferson Hatfield."

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked him - _obviously she was first line of defense against unwelcome visitors_.

Gold reached onto his belt and pulled off his badge. "I believe this will suffice."

The girl sighed. "You're another one. I see. I'll take you up to him." And she led him to the back of the shop and opened a door marked 'Private.' There was a narrow staircase inside. It was lit mostly with natural light from high windows on one side of the stairs. They climbed to the second floor and opened a plain wooden door to another room.

This room was a large well-lit area complete with a hodgepodge of bolts of luxurious fabrics, delicate lace samples, artisan buttons, silken ribbons, sturdy interfacing, and several sewing machines, sergers and embroidery machines, as well as a couple of dress maker dummies. There were two very pretty women standing around in various stages of undress.

_This was the fertile field of imaginative design where Miss French would take her mental images and make the fearsome jump to create physical displays of clothing, a confluence of ideas and materials that would become everyday wearable art. _

"Jefferson, another cop for you," the salesgirl called out.

A tall, slender young man poked his head around one of the model's crotch area. He'd been on his knees in front of the young woman with his hands down the front of her skirt. "Uno momento," he stood and patted the young woman on the behind. "Darlin', we'll just have to work on this lining later. Why don't you try on the blue silk? That should be ready to go."

He minced over to Gold and produced an exaggerated sigh. "Well?" he said with his hands on his hips. He stopped in front of Gold and looked him over, "My, my but aren't you an intense ball of hotness. Such an improvement over the other officers they've sent here."

"I'm Lieutenant Gold with Homicide. I wanted to ask you a few questions about Belle French's murder," Gold introduced himself levelly.

The young man took out a lavender colored handkerchief from his green waistcoat and touched it to his eye. "Go ahead, but it's so hard. The woman was a saint. Who'd want to murder her?"

"So you liked your employer?" Gold asked him.

"Absolutely. The woman was faaabulous. All of her employees loved her. She gave me my first job in the business."

"Took credit for your work?" asked Gold.

"Oh, I see what you're going after." Jefferson looked Gold over, assessing him. "You think she was stealing my designs and taking credit for them and, in a snit of pique, I murdered her." He wagged his finger at Gold, "Well, first she never took credit for my designs. The woman gave me my own label, Wonderland. Because of her I had the opportunity to work in one of the big New York houses, but I chose to pass it up. For me, working at French's Prêt á Porter was already working at one of the big houses. And second, the woman was not only a genius, she was the kindest, most wonderful person I've ever met."

Gold listened impassively, the merest hint of a smile on his face. "Where were you Friday night?"

"Out with a friend. I can produce the friend if I have to. We were together all night."

"Mr. Hatfield," Gold lowered his voice, "you're not gay."

Jefferson also lowered his voice and pulled Gold aside, "How do you know that?" his voice, his demeanor had both abruptly changed.

"Some of the other officers have already talked with your . . . friend - a Miss Alice. She works as a waitress in the vegan restaurant up the street. She assures us that you were . . . _with her_ . . . all night."

"So why'd you ask?"

"Just to see if I'd get the same story." Gold looked around. "Why the poofer personae?"

"A straight male in fashion?" Jefferson shook his head, " . . . would never be taken seriously. Besides you think these gorgeous women would let me put my hands down their pants and on their boobs if they thought I was straight? Belle knew, but it didn't matter to her. She thought a person should be judged by their talent."

Gold nodded, wrote in his book and then consulted another page. "Can you point me to some of these models? I need to talk with Ashley Sweep, Ruby Wolfe and Lacey Redfern."

"Ashley and Ruby are here. Ashley's the medium blond. Ruby's the tall brunette. Don't know where Lacey is. She didn't come in today or yesterday or . . . not since last Friday, but she's a bit . . . flighty. " Jefferson put his hand on Gold's shoulder and melded back into his swishy attitude.

"Ashley!" he called, "Dearest, this veeery nice policeman wants to talk with you."

Ashley timidly came forward.

Jefferson gave her directions, "Now, girlfriend, don't monopolize his attention. We should all get a crack at him."

Gold shook his head stifling a smile as Jefferson threw up his hands and went back into the changing area. He was calling out to the other model, "Ruby, why are you wearing the blue? The blue is for Ashley. You wear the red."

"Yes sir?" the little blonde in front of Gold seemed fearful.

"You were one of Belle French's models?"

The young woman nodded.

"How long had you known her?"

"Only a couple of months. I was doing some custodial work when she started talking to me about modeling for her. She said I was a perfect size six and she thought I had the right look for her to do her proto-type designs."

"Happy here?"

"Oh yes. I . . . I have a baby and she would let me bring the baby into work sometimes. She was so nice and so understanding. I don't know what I'm going to do now that she's gone."

"Who takes over? Mr. Hatfield?" Gold asked.

"I don't know. I would guess him, but I don't know."

"Where were you Friday night, Miss Ashley?" he asked her the same question he asked everyone.

"Umm. I was home with my baby. I don't get out much. I don't have any witnesses. Do I need a witness?" She sounded a little panicked.

"I don't think so. You don't appear to have any motive," he told her. _Didn't come over at all as someone who would murder in cold blood, using a shot gun no less. No apparent motive either._

He dismissed Ashley and called over Ruby. Ruby was a striking statuesque brunette, slender and, he would guess, another perfect size six.

"Yeah?" This one looked him right in the eye.

"Ruby Wolfe?"

"Yeah. No relation to Tom," she told him.

He looked at her, puzzled.

"Tom Wolfe. _Look Homeward Angel," she explained.  
_

"Oh yeah." Gold, of course, was familiar with the work, a thinly disguised book about Thomas Wolfe's mother's Asheville boarding house, and, of course, the author was one of Asheville's favorite sons. "How long did you know Belle French?" he got back to business.

"Almost since she first came to Asheville. About five years. She got me modeling for her four years ago when her business started to pick up. She was one of my best friends."

"Really? Did she tell you about whether or not she was going to marry Killian Jones?"

"No, but I doubt she would have. Too slick for her. Belle was the most real person I've ever met. I couldn't imagine her settling for someone like Jones," Ruby told him.

"You don't like Mr. Jones?"

"Does it show?" Ruby asked with a hint of a smirk.

"A little," he liked the forthright young woman. "Tell me about her relationship with Regina Mills."

Ruby made a face. "Regina was like her sponsor. Regina knows everyone. Once she decided she liked Belle, she was able to introduce her to everyone, including a lot of people who helped her career."

"So Belle was using Regina?"

"Oh no. More like they were, what do you call it?. . . symbiotes. Regina liked to know creative people – she made it possible for them to practice their creativity. Belle needed to know someone who helped creative people be creative – and she found Regina. The relationship was good for both of them."

"Were they in love?"

"Well I can't speak for Regina. I think she swings both ways. But as far as Belle went, she strictly drove stick. She wasn't a floozy by any means, but she liked a man's company." The brunette looked him over. "She probably would've liked you. A bit rough around the edges, but you seem like a smart guy. Belle always went for brains even though she seemed to end up with boneheads," Ruby told him.

Gold stopped writing to look at Ruby who was still smiling at him.

"What happens to you now she's gone?"

"Fortunately, I've saved quite a bit. This job paid really well. I've had a couple of offers, one from Tom Ford."

"So did you have a contract with Miss French that you couldn't leave for New York?" he asked.

Ruby gave him a slow smile and she shook her head. "I wasn't under any contract. I worked with Belle because she was my friend." Gold noted a few tears welling in the brunette's eyes. "If I'd've wanted to go to New York, she'd've bought me a train ticket and cried all the way to the station. I'm gonna miss her . . . terribly. She was the finest person I've ever met."

"Where were you Friday night?" he asked.

"Bar hopping with friends. I can give you their names."

"I've got the list already," he told her with his own smile. _Well, she was the most likeable of the troupe of oddballs that Belle had collected around her. He could see Ruby pulling a trigger if she got backed into a corner, but he couldn't see her shooting her bff and employer. Again, no apparent motive here._

He thanked the threesome and went down the stairs. He stopped to look over the shop. It was a small ladies clothing shop, classy with polished wood floors and lotsa mirrors, racks of clothes separated by designers – some featuring Belle's work, some Jefferson's and some offered other small-time designers' - unique clothing for the discerning woman. There was a delicate scent wafting through the place. There was original, probably local, art work on the walls.

He knew that Miss French had made money both through her ready to wear and through her design business. Both parts of the business were quite successful. He'd already pulled her tax records and learned that Miss French had been a canny young woman, with a number of wise, steady investments balanced with a few iffy ones, money that she would give as startups for other rising young artists. Some of those investments had failed, but many, if not most, had been wildly successful. She seemed to have had a feel for what would be successful and what would fold. She was doing very well for herself, especially in light of having come to Asheville five years ago with less than three hundred dollars to her name.

He glanced at his watch, five to one. He remembered he had a free lunch coming to him with Regina. He walked up the hill to Cúrate.

Regina was waiting for him from a table in the corner. She waved him back to her. Regina had a notepad computer set up in front of her.

"I've been writing my blog. You," she looked at him through her lashes, "are one of the most interesting people I've met in a while. I knocked out more than a thousand words just sitting here. Now, how went your morning?" she asked him, ignoring the face he was pulling and pouring him a glass of red wine without asking.

"Routine. Just questioning some more people," he avoided answering her question.

"I would imagine your job is days, perhaps weeks of ass-numbingly boring work punctuated by the occasional flurry of life-threatening activity."

"Pretty much," he shrugged. He puzzled over the menu.

"Allow me to order for us," Regina said waving a waitress over. "We'll start with the pan con tomate with manchego cheese. The setas al jerez, the sautéed mushrooms, are to die for. Two of those. Now I also want the gambas al ajillo, shrimp and garlic, their number one tapas," she added, speaking to the waitress and then to Gold as she translated the menu items, "and the bocadillo catalán which is sausage with peppers and onions, of course the patatas bravas, fried potatoes, and the lardo ibérico ahumado which is ham on toast. How does that sound?"

Gold blinked. "Sounds nice. These prices are too rich for my pocket. I'm just a humble police officer who works on the public dime," Gold told her.

"Oh lord, that's so 50's and so going in the blog. Now you know they'll bring our food to us one plate at a time," Regina went on to explain how the tapas bar worked. "It's a bit different from most restaurants. It's meant to be slower, allowing people a chance to savor and enjoy their food . . . and each others' company."

Regina sniffed and continued, "This was our table- Belle's and mine. We spent many quiet evenings here together. I remember we dined here the night of her twenty-ninth birthday. Just we two girls- happy, making plans for her future. Everything had started to come up roses for her. But this was a far cry...from the girl who walked into my life five years before."

**Thanks so much to my amazing reviewers (and to everyone still following and favoriting this story): OneMagician, cynicsquest, Aletta-Feather (Chapters 1 &amp; 2), Erik'sTrueAngel, Grace5231973, Tinuviel Undomiel, onlyinyourdreams77, Robin4, orthankg1, auntpsy (Chapter 1), MyraValhallah, deweymay, jewel415, and Chauchi.**


	4. Beginning

**A Walk in Ashes**

_Killian Jones has produced a key (that he is not supposed to have) that would have gained him access to Miss French's apartment at the time of the murder. _

_Gold raises the question as to the location of Miss French's car keys and car, neither of which are anywhere to be found. He gets a luncheon invitation from Regina before he goes off to question the employees at Prêt á Porter, Miss French's exclusive dress shop in downtown Asheville. He meets Jefferson Hatfield, a designer who works with Miss French, and two of her models – none of whom seem to have a motive to have hurt Miss French. Afterwards, he takes Regina up on her lunch offer at the tapas bar and Regina begins to tell him the story of her relationship with Miss French. _

**Chapter 4 **

**Beginning**

Regina had been talking, "I remember we dined here the night before her twenty-ninth birthday. Just we two girls - happy, making plans for her future. Everything had started to come up roses for her. But this was a far cry from the girl who'd walked into my life five years before."

"_Pardon me. Excuse me." Regina made no response to the beautiful young woman who had pushed her way through to her table at Cúrate. "Excuse me. Ms. Mills, how do you do?" The young woman sat down at the table across from Regina. "My name is Belle French, and I'm with a small entrepreneurial company. I'd like to talk something over with you, if I may."_

_Regina barely looked up, "You can hardly fail to realize that I'm engaged in eating my lunch."_

"_Yes, I know. I'm awfully sorry to interrupt this way . . . but it's so hard to get to see you the regular way, and . . . this will only take a minute, really, and it's for a very worthy cause." Belle reached into a large canvas bag she was carrying and began to pull out something._

"_My dear, either you were raised in some incredibly rustic community where good manners are unknown or you suffer from some delusion that because I'm a woman and you're a woman, we are exempted from the rules of civilized conduct . . . or possibly both. . . "_

_Unflustered Belle continued, "Possibly, but here's what I wanted to show you. Proceeds from the sale of these scarves are being donated to the Relay for Life. They have a unique design which has been done in different colors to represent the different cancers. We're giving scarves to various prominent women in the community and asking them to wear them to publicize the different events that will be going on."_

"_I don't wear scarves," Regina replied. "I'd be afraid someone would grab the ends and pull them taut about my throat or . . . I would use it to do the same to them." _

_Belle gave her a quick smile, "But this is for a very good cause, Ms. Mills. All we're asking is that you take one, wear it, tie it to your pocketbook or wrap your computer in it . . . and if anyone asks, you tell them you support Relay for Life and you got it from French Specials."_

"_I will not consider accepting, wearing, sporting, or offering my support to such an endeavor. If your friends from Relay for Life want to me to write an article about their pushy, guilt-tripping methods . . ."_

"_Oh, no! You mustn't do that! Relay for Life is a great organization that raises a lot of money for an excellent cause, Ms. Mills. They don't know anything about this. It was my idea to approach you. "_

"_Indeed?"_

"_Yes, I know that someone of your stature, a woman of your exquisite taste who sets the standard for fashion . . . well, I thought, what's the harm in trying? There was always a chance that you might agree to it, Ms. Mills. Just think what it would mean."_

_Regina had put down her fork. "You seem to be completely disregarding something more important than your little charity venture."_

"_What?"_

"_My lunch."_

_Belle's face reflected her disbelief, "Do you really believe that?"_

"_Implicitly," Regina said. _

"_Well, I never heard of anything so selfish," Belle began replacing the scarves into her canvas bag._

"_In my case, self-absorption is completely justified. I have never discovered any other subject quite so worthy of my attention."_

"_But you write about people with such real understanding and sentiment," Belle told her slowly. "That's what makes your blog, your podcasts and your newspaper and magazine columns so good."_

"_Sentiment comes easily for what they pay me."_

"_Well, if that's the way you really feel . . . you must be very lonely."_

"_Will you kindly continue this character analysis elsewhere? You're beginning to bore me."_

"_You're a sad woman. I'm very sorry for you." _

"Well, naturally, I was annoyed by the incident, but . . . but she had _something_ about her, that young woman. I had to speak to her again. I had to see her," Regina continued, beginning on one of the two orders of setas al jerez that had just arrived.

Gold usually didn't care for mushrooms, but he had to agree that these were delicious.

_Regina had found her way to a small warehouse, more the size of a double-wide garage, south of Asheville that was filled with fabric samples and screen printers. She entered the facility and stopped a young blonde woman carrying a roll of white silk._

"_Miss, would you mind if I," she managed to get out._

"_Just a moment, please," the young woman interrupted and continued by her. _

_Regina looked around. She could see Miss French on the far side of the room, sitting on a stool at a large table, talking on a land line telephone. "Of course we can get that order out to you. . . . I'm so glad those skirts were such a success. . . . yes, we are working on a fall line, different colors . . . masala, yes," she laughed. "That's what the color palate is being called that we're going with for the fall, Indian spices . . . . Well, of course, you're one of our established vendors. We'll definitely save you a shipment."_

_Regina made her way over to a front desk. A young woman with dark red-brown hair, fixed into long two braids, looked up at her. "Can I help you?" she asked Regina._

"_Regina Mills to see Miss French," Regina told her. _

_The silk-woman came by again, this time carrying hand-made patterns and she went to the back of the warehouse to stop by the large table where Belle was sitting. Silk-woman set the patterns in front of Belle and called her attention to the top envelope._

"_Look at the layers here. It looks great on paper, but do you think these will hang right?" the silk woman asked._

_Belle looked them over with her artist's eye. "Oh, Elsa, let's make a prototype. I suspect we'll have to get the right mix of fabric weights." _

"_Regina Mills to see Miss French," the young woman at the desk announced, yelling across the room._

_Belle did not look up. Her voice rang out, "Anna, please tell Ms. Mills that I'm too busy to see anyone."_

_Regina ignored Anna and began to pick her way through the chaos over to Belle. "Miss French, I have something to say to you," she called to Belle._

"_You've already said it, Ms. Mills, quite eloquently." Belle had focused herself on the patterns, sorting them into some semblance of order._

"_I wish to point out that you caught me at my most difficult. Ordinarily I am not without a heart," Regina was steadily making her way over to the work table._

_Belle looked at her and raised an eyebrow in a semblance of disbelief, "Really?"_

"_Shall I produce X-ray pictures to prove it? I wish to apologize."_

_Belle gave it a brief moment, then smiled, "Your apology is accepted. Now good-bye Ms. Mills."_

"_Well now, for reasons which are too embarrassing to mention, I'd like one of those scarves." _

_Belle stood up in amazement, "Ms. Mills! Thank you." She reached under the table and picked up the same large canvas bag she'd carried into Cúrate. It had a myriad of the colored scarfs in it. "You're a very strange woman," she said to Regina as she pulled out several of the scarfs. _

"_What?!"_

"_You're really sorry for the way you acted in the restaurant, aren't you?" Belle asked softly, laying out the scarfs on the table._

"_Let's not be analytical, Miss French, but, in a word, yes."_

"_It's very kind of you, you know," Belle smiled at the other woman._

"_But I am not kind. I'm vicious. It's the secret of my charm. But if you choose to think me kind. . . "_

Regina sighed and continued, "Well, I tied one of those damn scarfs on my tote bag and mentioned them with their truly extraordinary design in my next blog and of course the cause they were supporting. Well, Belle's career, her serious career as a fashion designer, began. Boutiques immediately called on her to secure their supply of her accessories and, very quickly, her clothing line. Over time, I broadened her customer base to include Charlotte, Atlanta, Miami, finally New York and her designs were just beginning to get to the west coast. I might have introduced her to important distributors and given her a start, but it was her own talent and imagination that enabled her to rise to the top of her profession and stay there."

Regina took another drink _Gold wondered how much she had drunk _and looked Gold over critically, "I doubt someone with your background has ever heard of the famous "Swing Dress" that Michelle Obama picked up when she and her husband were vacationing in Asheville or "The Little Blue Dress" that Kate Middleton bought when she was on tour in the U.S. but I would think even someone like you has heard of her very famous 'Oscar Red Dress.'"

Gold considered and nodded, "That's the one that little blonde actress wore to that awards thing?

"The Academy Awards," Regina supplied. "And that little blonde actress won Best Supporting that year. She got more attention for that dress than she did for winning the award," confirmed Regina.

"Yeah," Gold smiled slowly. "Even I have heard of _that_ dress."

"Every man with a pulse has heard of _that_ dress. That dress sealed Belle's career as a top designer," Regina took another sip of wine. "Before all that happened, I had been able to connect her with stylists that would improve her appearance and writers that would improve her mind. Belle had innate breeding, but in regards to her own personal appearance she usually deferred to my judgment and my taste."

Regina continued, "It was through me that she met everyone. The famous and the infamous. Her youth and beauty, her poise and charm captivated them all. She had warmth, vitality. She had authentic magnetism. Wherever she went, she stood out. Men admired her. Women envied her. On Tuesday and Friday nights, we often had dinner together at my place or here or at another restaurant. Sometimes I would read my latest articles to her. The way she listened was more eloquent than speech. When she made a comment, it was deep and insightful. I actually made changes in my work on the basis of some of her comments." Regina sighed, "Those were the best nights."

Regina got quiet for a moment as they started on the ham course.

"Then one Tuesday, she phoned and said she couldn't come. It didn't matter, really, but when it happened again the following Friday, I was disturbed. I couldn't understand it. I felt betrayed and yet I knew Belle would never betray anyone. I walked around for a long time and found myself outside of her apartment building. The lights were on and it pleased me to know she was at home. Then I saw that she was not alone."

Regina rubbed her eyes, "I waited. I wanted to see who he was." Regina smiled, a nasty, sly smile. "It was Gaston, the same blow-hole who had recently painted her portrait. I'd never liked the man. He was so obviously conscious of looking more like an athlete than an artist."

Regina took a deep breath. "I sat up the rest of the night writing a posting about him. I demolished his affectations, exposed his imitations of better painters. I did it for her, knowing that Gaston was unworthy of her.

"It was a masterpiece because it was a labor of love. Naturally she could never regard him seriously again. There were others, of course, but her own discrimination and taste for quality ruled them out before it became necessary for me to intercede. "

Regina sniffed and paused. "Until one night at a party at my mother's. It was one of mother's usual round-up of bizarre and nondescript characters corralled from every stratum of society."

"_Belle dear, this is Miss De'Vil. She's been waiting to meet you," Cora made the introductions._

_Belle smiled and shook hands, "How do you do?"_

_A tall, handsome man came up, "Excuse me, honey," he was speaking to Miss DeVil but noticed Belle, "Oh my, you're Belle French."_

"_Yes," Belle answered._

"_Hello, I'm Killian Jones. Do you want to dance?"_

"_I don't believe so. I'm here with a friend," Belle gently rebuffed him, nodding in Regina's direction._

"_With her? She looks like someone who does the Macarena and Back the Bus Up," Killian said disparagingly._

_Regina joined them, "Yes, Madonna taught them to me."_

"_Regina, darling," Cora joined them, interrupting the persiflage. _

"_Hello Mother, how are you?"_

"_Lovely dear. I see you've met Killian."_

"_It was unavoidable," Regina was being petulant._

"_Now, my dear, he was awfully nice to me in Louisville, at the Derby. His family's from Kentucky," Cora explained._

"_Sharecroppers, no doubt," Regina said caustically._

_Killian gave them a smug smile and, momentarily giving up, went into the kitchen where he could hit on the help._

"_Lilly, Lilly, Lilly for the last time, will you marry me?" Killian was following around a spry older woman, Lilly Wolfe, known to most simply as "Granny." She was an experienced chef and caterer that Cora often hired for her parties. _

"_I won't, but I've saved some of the lasagna for you," Granny told him._

"_Oh, but you are an angel. In the meantime, darling, you think you could get this spot out for me? I think it's lipstick," Jones pointed to a spot on his white shirt._

_Lilly looked at the spot closely, "I think it's booze," she told him. _

"_Whatever, please help me. I can afford a blemish on my character but not on my clothes."_

"_Just put it out for the next two-bit that you talk into doing your laundry for you."_

"_Too harsh," Killian complained, as he ate some of the lasagna that had been topped with premium Parmesan. "Mmm. Couldn't eat another mouthful. You are a genius, Lilly."_

"_Sounds like the liquor's talking," Lilly shot back at him._

"_Oh Lilly, you wound me."_

_At that moment, Belle walked into the kitchen. She didn't spare a glance at Killian, "Ms. Wolfe, lovely work tonight. I'll be calling on you for a little get-together I want to have in a couple of weeks."_

"_Why thank you Miss French. I have some ideas I'd love to discuss with you."_

"_Wonderful!" Belle answered. "I can always depend on you for something new and different. I'm looking forward to it. Now, may I have a glass of milk for Ms. Mills? Her indigestion seems to be acting up."_

_Lilly nodded, "Of course, Miss French."_

_Jones moved in to get Belle's attention, "I forgot to tell you. I also read palms. I cook. I swallow swords. I mend my own socks. I never eat garlic or onions. And I never eat crackers in bed. What more can you want of a man?"_

_Lilly intervened, "Don't listen to that swashbuckler," she warned Belle. _

"_I didn't expect to find him back here in the kitchen," Belle told her._

"_Whatever do you mean? Lilly and I are old friends. She feeds me, humors me, repairs me . . . and refuses to marry me, don't you, honey?_

"_I do," Lilly quickly agreed pouring a glass of milk and handing it off. _

_Belle spoke up, "She has good sense."_

"_Now, wait just a minute," Jones spoke up still trying to get Belle's attention._

"_Thank you so much, Ms. Wolfe," Belle told her as she turned to leave the kitchen. _

"_You're wasting your time," Lilly warned Jones. "She's got good sense too."_

"_Oh, you're jealous," Jones said as a parting word, and he followed Belle out of the kitchen hovering over the young designer._

"_You must tell me what it feels like, Mr. Jones," she finally spoke to him._

_He was puzzled, "What does what feel like, Miss French?"_

"_Living on the income from an estate."_

"_Well, I, uh . . . " the young man stammered. _

"_Or don't you know?" Belle followed up with another question._

"_Well, I did, until the sheriff took it over a year ago," he confessed. "You must have been talking with Cora," he surmised._

_Belle nodded. "Why maintain the fiction? Why not work?" Belle asked him, concern showing in her face._

"_Believe it or not, I asked one of my many friends for a job once," Jones began his story. "He was an executive of a big company . . . had hundreds of employees. He could have pressed a button and done it, but he just laughed. He thought I was joking." _

"_But you weren't," Belle realized._

"_No, not at all. But when I convinced him, he got embarrassed, said he'd phone me. That was months ago. Now whenever he sees me, he looks the other way."_

"_Do you really want a job?" Belle asked him. _

"_Oh yes, absolutely yes," he answered her._

_They were interrupted by a petulant Regina, "Oh, here you are." She took the milk Belle was carrying. "Belle, dear, I cannot stand these morons any longer. If you don't come with me this instant, I shall run amok."_

"_Of course, Regina," Belle answered with an indulgent smile. She glanced back at Jones, "Tomorrow, __Prêt á Porter on Haywood__, ten o'clock, ask for me. I'll be upstairs in my office. We'll see if there's anything that meets with your particular skills."_

Another course, the shrimp and garlic, had arrived.

Regina sighed and continued, "Of course, I concealed my annoyance with masterly self-control but I sensed that this was a situation that would bear watching. Killian has a certain oily charm that . . . well, you've met him."

Gold nibbled at the shrimp, "I have," he agreed. "So I take it your fears were founded."

"In the worse way. Belle gave him a job helping with her advertising and running her business office. It gave her more time for the creative end of things, the designing, all the new ideas that she had. Of course they began dating, so no more Tuesday night dinners."

"So you were jealous?" Gold asked her.

"I was appalled! Belle was so much better than Jones. He was way out of his depth with her. And I knew he couldn't possibly be faithful to one woman."

Gold gave her a small feral smile, "So you had him investigated."

Regina smiled back in appreciation of the man's quick mind. "What else could I do? There was so much objectionable about the man. It was quickly clear that he was availing himself of her models. Now Ashley and Ruby had both turned him down but apparently Lacey had not."

"Lacey?" He consulted his notebook. "Lacey Redfern? She hasn't shown up to work in a while."

"Probably stole money out of the till and went off to Cancun. She'd be the type. I suspect her real name was Sadie Mae not Lacey," Regina shared. "She's Belle's 'petite' model; they're about the same size. Belle always styled her clothes to look right on women of different heights. She always started with size six and would then work on more robust sizes," Regina took another bite of the shrimp and sighed. "Well, all the while Killian was wooing, and when I say wooing I mean pestering, Belle, he was seeing Lacey. I knew it. I just had to prove it."

**Thanks so much to everyone who is following and favoriting this little story. Special thanks to my insightful, helpful reviewers: OneMagician, onlyinyourdreams77, Erik'sTrueAngel, deweymay, Robin4, MyraValhallah, Aletta-Feather, Chauchi, cynicsquest, jewel415, juju0268, Grace5231973, and orthankg1.**

_Next: the outcome of the investigation, Gold does more interviews, and Gold realizes that he is developing feelings for Miss French_


	5. Hurt

A Walk in Ashes

_Treating the policeman to lunch at an upscale tapas bar, Regina has begun to share with him her history with the beauteous Belle. _

_She shared that they first met when Belle tried to enlist her assistance in raising money for Relay for Life, an organization that funds cancer research. Regina initially rebuffed her, but is struck by something in the talented, young designer. She sought her out, apologized and befriended her, and then assisted in her rise as a top new designer. Regina credited Belle herself with being the truly talented one, as well as being someone who attracted others with her natural charm. _

_But Regina is threatened by Belle's relationships with men and admits to sabotaging at least one of her relationships. She was clearly threatened by Belle's budding affair with Killian Jones, a ne'er do well and admitted to Gold that she'd had the man investigated_.

**Chapter 5 **

**Hurt**

"Well, all the while Killian was wooing, and when I say wooing, I mean pestering, Belle, he was seeing Lacey. I just had to prove it."

"_I approve of that dress," Killian said as they were about to leave the office and head down the narrow stairs into the main store._

"_You do?" Belle twirled so he could get the full effect._

"_And the woman who's wearing it."_

"_Well, thank you kind sir. It's a very versatile wrap knit dress. They're getting to be quite popular among some of my clients."_

"_Oh, there is something on my mind. It's been worrying me," Killian said as they were going down the stairs. "What is it?" He stopped on the stairs, "Oh yes, will you dine with me tomorrow night?"_

"_Maybe," Belle said coyly. "I'll have to check my calendar." _

"_Well, that's not exactly what's worrying me. How about the next night?"_

"_But Killian, I can't be . . ."_

_He interrupted her, "Oh please. What about three weeks from tonight and all the nights in between?"_

"_Don't you think I might have other engagements?"_

"_What about two months from now and the month after that?"_

_Belle shook her head, "What about next year?" she asked._

"_Oh good, it's all settled. Now what about breakfast?"_

"_What about dancing? This is a great dress for twirling around," Belle couldn't quite manage a twirl on the tight staircase. _

"_What about lunch? Beautiful lunches – day after day after day after day?"_

"_What about work? Beautiful work, day after day after day after day?"_

"_Why, Miss French the way I'm talking, you'd think I was in love with you."_

"_Uh hum. Well, tonight, I won't be seeing you. It's Friday and I have a standing appointment with Regina."_

_Killian pulled a face. "Why do you continue to associate with that evil crone?"_

"_Regina is really a lovely person. She's helped my career get off the ground and continues to be supportive of everything I do, financially and emotionally. And no, I'm not having an affair with her. I'll see you tomorrow night."_

"_And I shall return to my lonely apartment foregoing all feminine companionship while I wait to see you again in the morning and then I will look forward to a lovely, lovely evening."_

"I had been waiting at the bottom of the stairs," Regina shared with Gold. "Belle had forgotten she was to meet with me at the shop – we had some of her new charity designs to go over. I heard everything they said. I hurried back to my apartment and met with Belle when she came over."

"_Oh Regina, I got so busy I'm running late. I went to call you and then got interrupted. I'm so sorry," Belle apologized._

"_Well, it's no matter. I can say what I need to say," Regina dropped a large bulky brown envelope on one of her elegant polished tables. "The results of my private investigation of the sterling character of Mr. Killian Jones."_

"_A private investigation!" Belle was aghast. "This is a new low for you, Regina." _

_Regina waved her off, "Did you know that he almost went to jail for using fraudulent credit cards, that he was suspected of stealing his hostess's jewels while he was a house guest in Virginia?"_

_Belle came to his defense, "Well naturally they'd suspect him because he isn't rich. Those are all only insinuations, the cheapest kind of character assassination." _

"_These aren't only insinuations, my dear. Here you are. Read them," Regina had opened the envelope and turned toward the back of the report._

"_What of it? I know his faults. A man can change, can't he? People are always ready to hold out a hand to slap you down, but never to pick you up. I am helping Killian. His past is his own affair. I only care about the present."_

"_Belle, your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness. You see goodness in everyone and if there's no goodness there, you will invent it. Speaking of the changed Mr. Jones, do you know that right now, while he's pursuing you, he's running around with a model from your own office – Lacey Redfern?_"

_Belle was furious, "Regina, I'm closer to despising you than I thought I ever would be. I'm sorry, I guess I should have told you before. Killian's proposed and I . . . I've accepted. We haven't set a date but I should think it will be quite soon."_

_Regina rolled her eyes, "You're going to marry that low-life weasel? Belle, you aren't thinking clearly. Listen to me. I believe you recently gifted him with a Rolex watch. Rather valuable, wasn't it?" And Regina withdrew it from her pocket._

_Belle was surprised, "Where . . . where did you get it?"_

"_From the pawnshop where Lacey Redfern took it after he gave it to her."_

_Belle set her chin out in a determined pose, "I don't believe it. He may have given it to Lacey because she really needed the money. Or, he needed the money, but he would have been too proud to take it himself."_

"_Killian proud? Perhaps that's why the pawn ticket was in her name."_

_Belle drew herself up. "Before this goes any further, I'll just give Killian a call."_

"_He's not at home," Regina told her. "He's with my mother."_

"_He can't be. He asked me out to dinner. When I said 'no' he said he was going back to his apartment."_

"_Oh Belle, he would have cancelled his appointment with her if you had accepted his offer. She's his backup plan du nuit. If you call, she's likely to say he isn't there, to protect him from your wrath."_

_Belle was close to tears, "Regina, why are you doing this? _

"_For you, Belle. Shall we pay them a visit?"_

"_He won't be there, Regina. I know he won't."_

_"All right. Shall we see? And why don't we take this little bauble along in case he is there. I'd love to hear his explanation of how it ended up in a pawn shop on Lexington."_

"We walked over to my mother's apartment and her man Smee rang us up. He told us that Ms. Hart was not at home but we pushed our way in. And . . . I was so sorry to be right for once. There was Killian having a little candlelight supper with my rapacious mother."

"_Well darling," Killian rose smiling. "How delightful, I didn't expect to see you tonight." _

"_There you are, my dear," Regina spoke up. "In a moment of supreme disaster, he's trite."_

_Killian responded smoothly, "You've been reading too many melodramas, Regina. Cora gave me a call after I had left Belle and invited me over. I was just telling her about our getting married. Have you had a chance to have dinner? Would you like some wine? Why don't you sit down?" _

"It gave me little satisfaction when Belle left in tears. I didn't hear from her for days. I couldn't find out if she was talking with Killian in the meantime. All I could find out was that on the next Friday she had lunch with Lacey Redfern. What came of it? I had hoped to hear whenever she started speaking to me again. I alternated between moods of over-optimism and over-pessimism. When the phone rang that Friday, I had a foreboding of disaster."

"_Regina, I'm calling to tell you that I'm frightfully sorry. I can't have dinner with you tonight. . . . Oh no, no, I'm not sick. I'm just dreadfully confused. I'm going up to my cabin for a few days . . . Yes, I'm afraid it's about Killian. . . . Oh no, please. There's nothing you can do. I've got to think this marriage thing out for myself. I'm so sorry. I'll call you when I get back. Goodbye darling. Thank you for being so understanding."_

Regina sat quietly a moment, "That was the last time I ever heard her voice. I was sure that she had too much pride to forgive him, but . . . ." Regina stared into space, dejected.

"Do you know where this Lacey Redfern lives?" Gold asked her.

"I think I remember reading in the private investigator's report that it was somewhere out towards Fletcher. Shouldn't be hard for someone with your connections to track down," Regina told him.

"Well, this has been a delicious meal. I have to thank you for it Ms. Mills."

"Good day," Regina continued speaking more to herself than Gold. "I shall never forgive myself for letting her become involved with Killian. It was my fault. I should have stopped it somehow. Well, it's too late now."

"Thanks for the wine and the food," Gold thanked her again and headed out.

He stopped outside of the restaurant and made a couple of entries into his little notebook. He placed a quick call. "Yeah, Clark, I want you to track down the address for a Lacey Redfern. She's a model for Belle French and is supposed to have a place somewhere toward Fletcher." He then walked up Broadway to a small, select liquor store. He was already familiar with the place.

"Leroy!" he greeted the sullen owner.

Leroy scowled behind his counter. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from Lieutenant Gold from Homicide?" he asked. "You never come here unless there's trouble and you want somethin'."

"Belle French," Gold responded simply.

"Nice lady," Leroy told him. "Shame about how she got it. She was the one that got me connected with my Astrid. Real nice lady."

"She's been buying her liquor from you for a couple of years, hasn't she?"

"Yeah. She had quality tastes in booze. Never the cheap stuff."

"Did she ever buy a brand of whiskey called the Jolly Roger?"

"Not from me. She'd get Johnny Walker Blue most of the time. I don't think she drank it, but she kept it on for her guests and gentlemen callers."

"When was the last time you saw her?" he asked.

Leroy considered. "I'd say more than two weeks ago. She tended to come in once a month regularly and restock."

"Thanks, that's all I needed to know," Gold was on his way out.

"Gold," Leroy called out to him.

"Yeah?" Gold paused.

"I hope you get the son of a bitch that killed her. Blowing her away like that. Real asshole."

"I hope I get him too," Gold replied and went on down to Patton to the bank offices of David Nolen. This was Belle's business partner - her silent business partner.

Mr. Nolen was a young, tall handsome fellow wearing a suit off the rack. There was a picture of a gorgeous beaming brunette behind him and a family picture of himself, the same young woman and an infant, all set behind him in a short bookcase. _Not too many pictures like a cheating husband might have up – just the right number and type. _

"I appreciate your seeing me, Mr. Nolen," Gold told him sitting down in one of the faux leather seats in the little corner office of the large bank building.

"I know you're here about Belle French. Anything, anyway I can be helpful," the young man shook his head. "Such a tragedy. Such a talented, wonderful woman."

Gold consulted his little notebook. "She came to you for a bank loan five years ago."

"That sounds about right," David agreed.

"She didn't qualify for a bank loan," Gold added.

"No, she had no collateral. Only her talent."

"But she left here with a twenty thousand dollar loan," Gold waited for Nolen to explain.

"I have a trust fund. Twenty thousand is a small part of that fund. When Belle showed me her designs, I thought they looked good, but not knowing a lot about fashion, especially women's fashions, I had several women in the bank look them over. Everyone loved them. I thought, why not? I make many very, very safe investments. An occasional risky investment, particularly when I invest in something I believe in, it's worth it."

"It certainly was when it came to Belle French," Gold was consulting his notebook. "You opted to treat it as an investment and earn dividends rather treating it as a loan and taking payments. Within the past five years you've done very well with those dividends."

"Yes, her little company took off. After that Oscar dress, she was having to turn down customers. Best investment I ever made."

"So she was still paying you dividends?" Gold began.

"I essentially bought a share of her company. I was getting a small amount for every dollar of profit."

"She ever express any rancor about that? You kinda took advantage of her." Gold pursued the point.

"Not at all. Belle always told me that without me she would have never gotten the company off the ground. She always sent me a really nice Christmas present, invited me to all her showings. She designed my wife's wedding dress as a favor. She was a nice woman, a real class act. It's a loss for our community, for the fashion world, for everyone who ever knew her."

Gold stood, "Thank you for your time." _Another dead end, he thought. This guy is an affable, charming fellow, likely in love with his wife. He had a lot to lose with Belle's death. No reason to kill her, certainly not with a shot gun. _

He checked his watch. It was four thirty. He had time for one more stop. He walked back to his truck (which he'd left in the place designated for Belle's apartment) and drove out to the Arts District. He found the address with his GPS. He pulled into a gravel parking lot and walked to the door of the painted concrete block dwelling. He opened the screen door and walked into the gallery.

"Gaston Grande?" he called.

Regina had been right. A tall man who looked more like a body builder than an artist poked his head around the corner.

"Come to commission a portrait of your wife?" the man came out wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His hair was wavy and long, making him look like a cut-rate brown-haired Fabio.

"No."

Gaston looked him over, "Girlfriend, perhaps?"

"No."

Gaston shrugged, "Boyfriend it is."

"No," Gold opted to end the charade. "I'm Lieutenant Gold with Homicide."

Gaston's face dropped. "Oh. You're here about Belle French. Shame that. She was a great piece of ass."

Gold took an instant dislike to the bombastic artist.

"When had you last seen her?" he asked.

"Well she blew me over after I finished her portrait. Probably my best work. We ran into each other a couple of times since, usually at one of Cora's parties. Now there's a broad who knows how to par-tay. She _likes_ younger men, if you get the idea."

"I get it. What was your relationship with Ms. French after the breakup?"

"Whut? Like we broke up? Didn't see each other no mo'."

"Did you hate her?"

"Whu-ut? Nah. She was a nice enough broad but there are plenty of prize chickees out there. Got alotta publicity for that portrait. Got me quite a few more jobs when we had it on display in some of the high end galleries – some of those jobs were painting ladies in the all-together. I did those for their boyfriends."

"Have any ideas about what might have happened?" _ Good grief, this guy was an idiot. It was hard to believe that he and the exquisite Miss French had ever been a couple._

"Someone killed her. That sucks, really sucks."

"Know any reason why someone might have wanted her dead?"

"Maybe she was stepping out with somebody's husband or more likely their wife. When we were going together she never let me have any, so I figured she was a closet lesbian, especially after finding out that she and Regina Mills were . . . . you know. . . _friends_."

"Where were you Friday night?" Gold asked him.

"Uhmmm," Gaston gazed off, the memory activity clearly taxing his brain. "Oh yeah, I was out with my best bud and roomie, Keith. Saw a movie." He considered, "Saw _Slumber Party Three!_ It was awesome! Then we came back here and watched a couple of skin flics and drank 'til we both passed out. "

"Really?" Gold wasn't particularly interested in the puerile entertainment of which Mr. Grande had availed himself. He was about to go when he had a sudden thought, "Do you know a Miss Lacey Redfern?"

"Oh yeah," Gaston quickly answered. "She's one of Belle's models. She's Keith's girlfriend, well most of the time. Lacey's real open-minded, if you get my drift."

"You mentioned Keith before. Who is he?" Gold questioned him.

"My best bud, roommate, Keith Nottingham," Gaston told him.

"When did you see Lacey last?" Gold asked him.

This was a demanding question for Gaston. "Uuhhh, oh yeah, she'd come by Saturday morning . . . no, it was Friday morning. Had some words with Keith and left."

"They have a fight?"

"They wuz always squabblin' over this and that."

Gold's years of working vice bubbled up and his antennae came out. _Something unsavory in this relationship._ "He ever hit her?"

"Nah, well, not when she didn't deserve it," Gaston told him.

Gold made a note. "Well, thank you Mr. Grande. You've been very helpful. Here's my card if you think of anything that might relate to the case."

"Whut would you want me to do?" Gaston gazed at the card with bewilderment.

"Give me a call," Gold explained. He returned to his truck and wrote more details in his notebook. He yawned. This had been a long day.

He decided to head out to Webos to get supper, maybe one of their pork barbeque sandwiches with cole slaw and their sweet potato crunch. He'd get it to go and take it home. He could eat it on his deck and drink a beer . . . maybe two beers.

Later, with his food, he headed home toward Skyland. He had to turn off the main road and make his way up a small wooded hill. His house was set far back from the road. It was an older home built in the Gothic Revival style with the steep pitched roofs exemplifying the period. There were three stories to the place (not counting the basement), complete with several dormers and an honest-to-goodness turret. On the roof were iron crestings and at least five ornamented chimneys. There was an attached two car garage. Inside were five bedrooms, one of which he used as a bedroom, the others were upstairs. He'd left the bedrooms upstairs empty and closed off. There were two baths and a half bath (one upstairs and one and a half down), a large kitchen with an eat-in area, and a sitting/living room with a real fireplace. It had a heavily tree'd backyard. And there was a large deck with an iron railing.

It was dark and isolated. It had been in very poor shape when he'd purchased it for next to nothing. He'd been spending his money and his time fixing it up. He focused on the roof and heating and cooling system first. He'd since gotten the master bedroom completed but had only just started on the sitting/living room.

The house was perfect for him. Broken, but still salvageable. He sat on his deck, eating and drinking. And relaxing.

Sitting outside, nursing his second beer, he couldn't help but think back on the victim. Belle French had not only been a beautiful woman, she was from all accounts, a kind and generous woman. Creative and intelligent, a rare combination.

After eating he went back inside the house, stripped off and got into the shower. Standing with the hot spray running over his face and body, he found himself, unbidden, thinking again of the woman in the portrait with her bright blue eyes and pale skin and chestnut curly hair. Everything . . . everything he had heard about this Belle French . . . she sounded like the perfect woman. Beautiful inside and outside.

Unbidden, he had several brief fantasies . . . of her showering with him . . . of her wearing That Red Dress . . . of her having supper waiting for him when he got home . . . of her lying in his bed. She probably giggled when she was amused, like a little girl - but she was no little girl. She probably would cry out when a man took possession.

And scream when she came.

He scrubbed himself.

_Really, Gold? _

_This _had_ been a long day._

She was this high-powered designer and he was just a police officer. He was a good police officer, a damn good police officer, but just a police officer. He knew his superiors put him on high profile cases because he was the best. He was deemed capable of magic when working on these complex, nasty cases. That's why he was on this case.

_But he had to wonder . . . if he had met this woman . . . before . . . would she have spoken to him? been nice to him? accepted a date with him? _

_From everything he'd heard, she probably would have. She was a nice lady - classy. Yeah, she'd have gone out with him - if he'd had the guts to ask her._

_What was he thinking? If they had met, he wouldn't have had the nerve to approach her. He would have felt like a peasant in the presence of royalty. _

_Still, as he lay down in his bed rubbing his sore, aching knee, he couldn't help but fantasize about that pert little body, that angelic face, that sweet smile, imagining her lying next to him, pressing her lush curves up against his body. He went to sleep cradling a pillow in his arms as if it might have been a woman – no, not _a_ woman, a very specific woman, a little brunette with brilliant blue eyes. _

**Thank you, thank you to all my reviewers (I'm not responding to anybody's theory and you folks have a lot of theories): orthankg1, OneMagician, cynicsquest, Erik'sTrueAngel, juju0268, Chauchi, Robin4, kagi-chan2, jewel415, deweymay, Aletta-Feather, onlyinyourdreams77, Grace5231973, and Ying-Fa-Dono (Guest): Again not saying one way or another who the killer is. **

_NEXT: Gold returns to Belle's apartment_

_Gold meets Ms. Potts_

_Gold visits Lacey's apartment_


	6. Taste

**A Walk in Ashes**

_Regina has shared that her reveal of Killian Jones's past misdeeds did make Miss French begin to re-think the relationship with the man – but it also caused Miss French to re-think her relationship with Regina. Miss French did call her as she was about to leave town to go to her mountain cabin. _

_Gold takes his leave and visits with Leroy, Miss French's liquor provider and with David Nolen, who had advanced Miss French some of his own money to get her company up and running. He then visits Gaston Grande, the man who painted the extraordinary portrait of Miss French. He takes a near instant dislike to the man and wonders how Miss French could have ever had a relationship with the bombastic lunkhead. In passing he asks Gaston if he knew Lacey Redfern and is told that she is his roommate's, Keith Notthingham's, on-again, off-again girlfriend. He suspects the relationship may have been abusive._

_Gold picks up some dinner for himself and eats it on the back deck of the house he is refurbishing. He realizes that he is developing feelings for the enchanting Miss French, imagining her as a part of his life. _

**Chapter 6**

**Taste  
**

The following morning he got take-out coffee and drove his vintage silver land cruiser truck back into town and parked again in the place that was designated for Miss French's apartment. He went back up to the apartment. He checked the time. It was about twenty minutes after seven.

He paused a moment to study her portrait: he realized that she was wearing a blue version of That Red Dress. The blue in the dress matched her eyes. She had possessed astonishingly blue eyes. Then there was chestnut brown hair falling in burnished ringlets, alabaster skin, a cute little figure, a soft gentle smile. He could get lost in those eyes. That smile could ease the pain in his soul.

_How the hell had a Neanderthal like Gaston Grande manage to paint such a remarkable portrait? _

Gold took a deep breath and went into her bathroom. It was clean, hell, it was sparkling. He checked the medicine cabinet. No prescription bottles. Some first aid stuff, some ibuprofen, some vitamin C. There were a lot of little bottles and containers. He opened a drawer. More bottles and containers. He looked under the sink. Along with feminine hygiene products there were more bottles and containers, these stored neatly in a plastic shoe box. He picked up one. Kate Somerville oil-free moisturizer. He looked at another one. Glamglow Youth Mud. Not sure what that was used for. He picked up another one. Mega-mushroom soothing lotion. He was completely in over his head.

He shut things up and shook his head. The woman was a complete products junkie. But nothing illegal or even marginally so.

Next he went to the kitchen. He looked in her fridge. It was the tidiest fridge he'd ever looked into. There were long clear containers that held different things, like pickles or condiments. There must have been six different mustards in one of the 'drawers.' He checked the crisper drawers – a bag of organic carrots, some organic celery and a cucumber. On the other side were a couple of apples, a pear, and some cherries. There was some bottled water labeled as containing electrolytes and another water bottle that was labeled as being natural alkaline spring water. Some organic apple juice and some organic peach-strawberry-mango juice. And organic milk and some almond milk in another carton. Organic eggs. Nice.

She had one of those new-fangled pod coffee makers on the counter. He went through her cabinets and found several dainty little cups hanging from little hooks. He selected one and put it on the coffee maker. There was a little drawer underneath the coffee maker that was full of the little pods for Costa Rican coffee, a mild roast coffee. He frowned and pulled the drawer all the way open. In the back there were a few others that were labeled as being dark roast. Satisfied, he picked out one of these and popped it into the machine, waiting the short time for it to brew. Gold then took the black coffee and returned to his job.

He sat down at Belle's writing desk placing the coffee to one side on a little coaster that was already on the desk. Miss French had a pastel pink computer that he opened and began to go through, checking her email, facebook and whatever other social media he could access.

He checked her phone records. Last Friday there had been a call to an attorney in Atlanta. Gold looked him up on line. The guy specialized in adoptions. Gold made a note of it.

Then he checked her search histories – mostly fashion related, wedding related, nothing sinister. He also pulled out the white leather bound journal that he'd found the other day and he began perusing it. _It was her personal journal, her diary. _He'd stop periodically to write down something in his little notebook.

He was expecting someone.

Promptly at eight, the door opened and in came a plump woman dressed in a plain uniform.

"Ms. Potts?" he addressed the woman.

"That's my name. Who are you?" she answered him promptly. "What're you doin' here?"

"Lieutenant Gold. I'm with Homicide."

"Another one of those infernal policemen. Hope you get off your butts and figure out who killed Miss Belle. The woman was a real lady."

"Sit down, please," he gestured to one of the plush chairs in the small sitting room.

Ms. Potts stopped a moment peering over at the desk. She could see what he had been doing. "You're goin' through her private stuff! Her emails and such! And her journal! You've been readin' her private thoughts! Pawin' through her things! It's a shame, that's what it is! A shame! Can't leave her any dignity!"

"Sit down, please," he asked her again.

Ms. Potts drew herself up. "I'll stand on my own two feet, thank you. I always have and I always will. Don't think you can go ordering me around. I ain't afraid of cops. I was brought up to spit whenever I saw one."

Gold had to smile to himself, "Go ahead and spit if that'll make you feel better."

Ms. Potts stood with her arms folded. "Whaddya want to know?"

"What we all want to know. Who killed Belle French?"

"How would I know? Isn't that your job? Now . . . hey, wait a minute! You don't think I done it? I know you cops get some crazy notions, but if you got any ideas concernin' me . . . ! Ask anyone – anyone who ever came to this house. I would have worked for her. I would have washed, cleaned, ironed, scrubbed, done everythin' she wanted of me, whether she paid me or not. And it wasn't only on account of the thousand sweet things she done for me. It was because she was so sweet herself. Because she was a real fine lady. But you cops wouldn't know nothin' about that."

Gold spoke softly to the distraught and angry maid. "But you do. That's all the more reason why you should help me. Now Ms. Potts," he went over to the liquor cabinet and pulled out a particular bottle of whiskey, "Do you happen to know how this got into her liquor cabinet?"

"Yeah, I do. I put it there," Ms. Potts promptly responded.

"But she didn't buy cheap stuff like this. Not a real fine lady like Ms. French."

"No. She weren't the one that bought it."

"When did you put it into the cabinet?"

"Saturday morning right after I . . . Before the police came."

"Was it out Friday night before you left?"

"No."

"Are you sure of that?"

Ms. Potts drew herself up, "I cleaned out that cabinet on Friday, like I do every Friday. Got everything lined up like she liked things. Put out clean glasses. Everything was spic and span. Yeah, I'm sure." She was looking him in the eye.

"Then," Gold put the puzzle together. "There was somebody with her in the apartment Friday night after you left. Someone who brought that bottle."

"I suppose so," Ms. Potts agreed.

"Who?"

"I don't know. How should I know? But I didn't want anyone getting any wrong ideas about her." Ms. Potts took a deep breath and continued, "That's why I took that bottle and two glasses out of the bedroom before the police got here. I put the bottle in the cabinet. And that ain't all I done."

"Ms. Potts?" Gold narrowed his eyes. Anyone else might have been intimidated.

"I cleaned the bottle off and then washed out the glasses and I put 'em up. One of them had alcohol in it. The other had had some juice," she told him defiantly.

"Ms. Potts," he was shaking his head. "Do you know what happens to people who destroy evidence?" he asked her.

"I don't care. Now you ain't gonna tell those reporters are ya? Let them make up nasty stories and drag her name through the mud? Go ahead, but it won't do you any good." Ms. Potts was on a roll, "I'll say you lied. I'll say that you . . ."

"Take it easy, Ms. Potts. I'm not trying to be disrespectful towards Miss French. I'm trying to find out who killed her," he had raised his voice slightly. "Now, I'm going to get your help with something and your helping me will go a long way with me forgetting that you destroyed evidence." His tone brooked no resistance or argument. "I'm expecting someone here at ten." And he filled her in on his objective and what she could do to be helpful.

The two went on with their respective jobs with Gold back to looking through Belle's private writings at her desk and Ms. Potts cleaning the already pristine refrigerator, dusting and then vacuuming. Ms. Potts frequently glared at Gold and made disgusted little sounds as he continued going through Belle's private information.

It was ten after ten when there was a knock at the door. It was Killian Jones, Ms. Cora Hart and Ms. Regina Mills. Cora was wearing her signature red but Regina was more subdued, attired in shades of grey. Killian spoke up, "Lieutenant Gold sent for me."

They all greeted him, "Good morning Lieutenant," Killian spoke up.

Gold frowned, "This is quite a procession." He added to himself, "That's never good." Then he spoke to the group, "I only sent for you, Jones."

"I know," Jones replied.

Cora spoke up, "Killian's dropping me off at the hairdresser's later . . . so I thought I might as well come along."

"My excuse is equally feeble," Regina spoke up. "I just popped in to pay my dubious respects . . . and inquire as to the state of your health."

"I would have thought you came to see if there's anything else you can put into your blog," Gold said sourly.

"Or, better yet, my Friday night podcast," Regina continued on. "I've already re-released my old podcast on your heroic actions taking down the drug lord to remind my fans of the sergeant with the stainless steel shinbone. I'm updating my blog this afternoon. It's all in preparation for your continuing exploits at solving this . . . _The Belle French Affair_. How does that sound for a title?"

"Melodramatic dear, but you always were prone to over-acting," Cora told her and then spotted the liquor and the glasses. "I'm going to pour myself a drink. Care to join me?" she asked . . . everyone. "This stuff is ghastly," she held up the Jolly Roger, the odd liquor bottle that Gold had questioned Ms. Potts concerning. "Now Belle always kept Johnny Walker Blue," and she leaned over to look through the cabinet and pull out the bottle of prime liquor.

"A very nice idea," agreed Gold. "Killian wouldn't you like one?" Before Killian could answer, Gold asked, "Ms. Potts, will you get us a couple more glasses?"

Ms. Potts glared at the police officer but said, "Yes, sir."

"Well, Ms. Potts," Cora noticed her. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"I'm paid up for the week and I'm working regardless."

Gold offered the liquor to Regina, "Mills, would you like one?" he asked.

"I see no reason to exclude myself. If the host is providing the whiskey."

"Will this do?" Gold held up the bottle of Jolly Roger.

"Not at all. I'll have some of the good stuff," Regina rejected the cheap alcohol and took one of the other glasses to pour herself a drink.

Gold turned back to Killian. "How about you, Jones? It's cheap, but it's potent."

"As a matter of fact, I don't think I care for any. I'm not much of a daytime drinker."

Gold held the glass containing the cheap liquor but did not raise it to his lips. "Really? Ms. Potts, bring Mr. Jones some of that excellent peach-strawberry-mango juice that Miss French has in the fridge."

Ms. Potts soon came back with the carafe of juice and a glass balanced on a serving tray. Jones took the glass and poured himself some juice. Gold turned back to her, "Ms. Potts, that will be all for you today. You can go home now," he smiled kindly at her.

"But I . . . " Ms. Potts locked eyes with him. "All right sir. But I'll be back tomorrow morning."

"Of course you will. Take care of yourself," he watched her go.

Regina held up one of the beveled crystal highball glass. "I remember when Belle bought these glasses. Waterford crystal. She got a complete set. She loved them. She loved all her things so. I remember she had this . . . well, it was almost a rule about buying things. Don't buy something if you don't love it but if you do love something then go to great lengths to buy it."

"What are you going to do with her things?" Gold asked. "Sell them?"

Cora shrugged, "I'm the executor of her will. I really don't know – haven't given it much thought. I suppose we'll sell her things. She has some rather valuable pieces here. Really when she asked me to be the executor of her will, I never expected to outlive her. I'll probably just call in Albert."

"You mean Albert Spencer, the art dealer?" Regina asked.

"Yes, he was well acquainted with Belle. I'll let him dispose of everything, probably have a quiet private auction. It'll be less gruesome that way."

"Not quite everything, Mother," Regina spoke up. "Two or three things in here belong to me. This vase, for instance and that, uh, that brass clock, of course . . . and the antique Japanese fire screen. I only lent them to Belle, you know."

"Oh really, Regina?" Cora was appalled.

"Yes Mother, really. This vase is the gem of my collection. I intend to have it back. And the clock and the screen, too."

"But they aren't yours. You gave them to Belle. I won't permit it," Cora disputed her daughter's claims.

"Does an alleged fiancé have any voice in this matter?" Killian jumped into the fray.

Both women turned on him and, in unison, said, "No!"

"I'll take the vase with me now and send someone to collect the other things this very day," Regina insisted.

"Nothing is leaving here except you, Regina," Gold stepped into the situation.

"Is that your quaint way of indicating dismissal?" she asked him.

"We're all going anyway. I have more errands to run," Gold told them all.

"Lieutenant, I don't understand," Killian spoke up. "You sent for me, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Well, didn't you want to see me? Don't you want to ask me some questions?" he asked puzzled.

"Oh, I'll be seeing you," Gold told him. "And asking you some questions," he added.

"Well . . ." Killian nearly sputtered.

"Goodbye everyone," Gold was ushering them towards the door.

"Come along Killian," Cora spoke up. On the way out she stopped and turned back to Gold, "Are you making any progress on the case, Lieutenant?"

"We're doing all right," he replied non-committedly.

After they had left (been escorted off the premises), Gold carefully labeled the glasses and set them aside. He made a call to get some of the lab crew up here to pick them up to get fingerprints. Then he went down the stairs to talk with Miss French's landlady, an Ariel Poole.

She'd been crying. "She was such a lovely, wonderful person and that was such a horrible way to die," she told him.

"How was she as a tenant?" Gold asked the young woman.

"Perfect. Always paid her rent, kept the place pristine, no raucous parties, recycled. Never had any problems with her."

"Did she have a lot of guests?"

"Oh people were always coming in and out, at all hours – not for anything seedy, mind you. She was always helping people out, sometimes just giving them a place to stay, a hot shower and a meal. She was always reaching out to others. The kindest soul you'd ever meet. Any time someone was in trouble, they would come to Belle. If a girl had broken up with her boyfriend, they'd go and see Belle. If a boy had broken up with his girlfriend, or boyfriend for that matter, they'd go and see Belle. She never judged. She'd just be there for them."

"Did you ever have cause to go and see her?" Gold asked her, making a note in his ever-present notebook.

"Well, I did once. I had some boyfriend problems a while back. I was upstairs talking to Belle nearly every day. She helped keep me strong."

"How did it turn out?"

Ariel gave him a small smile. "We're seeing each other regularly now."

"Anybody ever say anything bad about Miss French?"

"Like you mean did they want her dead or threaten her?" When Gold nodded, Ariel shook her head. "I don't know anyone who didn't like Belle."

"Were you aware of any visitors coming to her apartment on Friday?"

Ariel shook her head.

"Do you happen to know a Lacey Redfern?" he asked. "She might have been one of those who came to see Miss French."

Ariel shook her head. "Not by name. What did she look like?"

"Not sure. She was short and brunette, one of Miss French's models."

Ariel shook her head again.

He put his notebook back in his pocket and prepared to leave. He stopped on the way out, "Oh yeah, do you usually keep the windows on the stairwell locked up and the screens latched?"

"Oh yeah, it could be a hazard if any small children came in the building," Ariel told him.

"And how many parking places are assigned to Miss French's apartment?" he asked, curious.

"Two. All the penthouses have two places. People can pay and get another place if they need it."

"Are the parking places next to each other?"

"Let me check," Ariel told him and pulled out a map of the parking places. "Yeah. Miss French's places are next to each other," and she showed him on the map.

He started back out but then stopped again. He asked, "Will you have any problems renting the place, now that someone's been murdered in it?"

Ariel shook her head, "This is Asheville. It's not quite as ghost-friendly as Savannah, but still, having an apartment to rent that has such a notorious history will not be a problem."

He nodded and headed on out. He had two more people to interview. He was becoming concerned about Lacey Redfern's disappearance and how that might tie into Belle's murder. He had two addresses to check out and got into his truck to track them down.

The first was a low-rent apartment complex beyond Arden, towards Fletcher. He double-checked the address and went to the apartment door and knocked. He got no reply. He then fetched the apartment manager and using his badge intimidated the plump woman into opening the apartment.

It was empty. It looked like someone had just picked up and left. There were clothes on the floor, out of date food in the fridge, a couple of dirty plates in the sink and, it took him awhile to locate the mewing animal, one very hungry kitten. He picked up the poor little calico thing. It had not been well taken care of judging by his ability to feel the animal's rib cage. He found and opened a can of cat food which he put in a disreputable bowl for the animal. The kitten promptly devoured the food. He put out some fresh water for the animal.

"Have you seen her recently?" he asked the manager who was following on his heels.

"No, but that ain't nothin' new," the woman volunteered more information. "She has her rent set up to pay automatically so it weren't like she ever came by. She's got these rough looking boyfriends, like bikers or gang-bangers, several of 'em, but she keeps the noise down so the neighbors don't complain. Is she in trouble?"

"Just want to question her about her whereabouts. When was the last time you do remember seeing her?" he asked.

The woman thought, "Maybe last Friday morning. I remember because I was walking out to the mailbox and saw her go by in her little blue Kia. I figured she was on her way into work. But her being gone for days at a time, that ain't unusual. I figure she's shackin' up with one of her boyfriends."

"Ever see this man?" Gold pulled up a picture of Killian Jones on his phone(from a magazine article on Miss French's business).

"Now isn't he a pretty thing. No, can't say I 'member him. She liked rougher, bigger guys."

"Thanks." Gold nodded. "If she comes back, let her know I've taken her cat and give her this card, please." He handed the woman his card, then collected a bag of litter and stuffed his pockets with several cans of cat food. Cradling the kitten in one hand, he walked back to his car carrying everything, balanced with his use of his cane.

He heard the woman, "Special Investigator? Homicide? Whut's that about?"

The kitten settled in the passenger seat of the car, curling up and nodding off, apparently quite comfortable with him. One more stop. He double checked the address. A car repair facility.

**Thank you, thank you all my lovely reviewers (this story is a bit of a stretch for me – something new I'm trying and I do appreciate the insightful feedback): Cynicsquest, OneMagician, Erik'sTrueAngel, MyraValhallah, Robin4, jewel415, Aletta-Feather, Grace5231973, onlyinyourdreams77, Chauchi, deweymay, and juju0268**

_NEXT: Gold continues the interviews_

_Gold decides to try to purchase one of Miss French's possessions_

_And he has to deal with the fallout from Regina's latest blog _

_Gold spends a quiet evening with The Portrait of Miss French and gets the surprise of his life. _


	7. Revelation

**A Walk in Ashes**

_Gold recognizes that he is becoming increasingly enamored of the lovely Miss French. He arrives early at her apartment to await several visitors. First is Miss Potts, Miss French's housekeeper. She is quite the feisty woman and does not hesitate to share her disapproval of Gold going through Miss French's private information. Ms. Potts also confesses that she cleaned up two glasses and a bottle of cheap liquor after she had discovered the body and before she called the police. Gold (after hinting he could arrest her for destroying evidence) enlists Ms. Potts's assistance in getting fingerprints from Killian Jones (and while they are at it, the fingerprints of Regina Mills and Cora Hart – as well as Ms. Potts). _

_Gold then makes a visit to Lacey's apartment. The last time anyone saw her was Friday morning. Her apartment appears to have been abruptly abandoned but he is told that it's not unusual for Lacey to take off for days at a time. Gold rescues an abandoned half-starved kitten from her place. _

_He then goes to a car repair facility to interview one more individual who may be able to give him information regarding Miss Redfern. _

**Revelation**

**Chapter 7**

It was a dirty, fly-by-night car repair facility. Gold parked under a sweetgum tree, lowered the windows, patted the kitten and then went on out. He approached the owner (he assumed he was the owner – the man's tee-shirt was the cleanest of the staff milling around). Gold flashed his badge.

"Yeah, whacha want?"

"I need to talk with Keith Nottingham. I believe he works here," Gold said politely.

"Yeah." The owner spit to the side and called out, "Keith, you gotta cop here to see you."

"Whut? I ain't been arrested or nut'in'," the tall young man came limping out from behind a car, wearing a tool belt, complete with a variety of socket wrenches and various small tools. He had a couple of small screwdrivers sticking out of the pocket of his shirt.

"I just have a few questions for you, sir," Gold continued politely.

"About what? I don't got to talk to you without a lawyer."

"You're not in trouble Mr. Nottingham. I just wanted to ask if you knew the whereabouts of Miss Lacey Redfern."

"I saw her last Saturday. She said she was gonna drive over and see her mother."

"What context was . . . Where did you see her?"

"She'd dropped by my place Saturday morning."

"Where does her mother live?" Gold pressed.

"I dunno. Somewhere Tennessee or Kentucky."

Gold walked around the garage. "Her car is missing too," he said looking up at the car on the lift.

"Well, I'd guess she drove it over to her momma's," Keith told him. "How else would she get there?"

"Of course. I appreciate your time." Gold turned to walk back to his truck but stopped, "Oh, yes, where were you last Friday night?"

Keith narrowed his eyes. "I'd gone out with Gaston Grande to see a movie."

"What movie?"

"_Slumber Party Three, The Revenge," _Keith said sourly without a moment's hesitation.

"And then?" Gold asked. A perceptive man might have heard the steel behind his voice.

"Went back to our apartment and got piss drunk."

"You share a place with Mr. Grande?"

"Yeah," Keith confirmed.

"Thank you," he told the man and started to walk back to his truck. He paused again, "How'd you hurt your foot?" he asked.

"Tripped over somethin' when I was drunk. How about yourself?"

"Made a bad choice," he answered and walked back to his truck. He stopped before cranking up to take some notes on the conversation.

Gold went back up to his home and deposited the kitten, shutting her up in the bathroom after he'd opened another can of food into a cereal bowl and filled up another bowl with water. He hesitated, but then put a towel down on the floor for the animal. He found an old cardboard box in the garage and filled it with the litter and put that in a corner of the bathroom.

He then drove back to Miss French's apartment, parking in one of the two places that were designated for her apartment. He looked at the car next to his. It was a little blue Kia. He made a call and got the confirmation he thought he would.

Lacey's little blue Kia. What was it doing at Miss French's apartment? Why had it been left there? She certainly hadn't taken it to drive west to go see her mother.

He went up the stairs and back into the apartment, again settling in behind Miss French's writing desk.

And there he hesitated, picking up his phone and putting it down several times.

He sighed, shook his head, but then made up his mind. Finally, he used his cell phone and called the art dealer Cora Mills had mentioned. I_t was probably a silly impulse on his part but that portrait haunted him_.

_Somehow, he thought, in his lonely, drab existence, knowing that that picture would be waiting for him when he got home, well, it might make things seem less lonely._

Then he called one of his own people, "Hello Clark, yeah, go get something to eat. I'll take over. . . . No, I really have never read the woman's blog. . . . You don't either but your girlfriend does? . . . . And she wrote what about me?. . . . Oh jeez. . . . No, I'm not sleeping with her. . . No, I don't plan on sleeping with her . . . Where do I begin? She's a murder suspect, she's not my type, and NO. . . .Yeah, just go get something to eat. . . . Oh, I need you to run by a pet store. . . . Uh huh. I need a litter box and litter and some cans of cat food, something for a kitten. . . . I don't know what kind, just kitten food. . . Yeah, I'll take over from here . . . take your time." He hung up and made another call. _Apparently he was The Hot Topic in Regina's latest blog. This could reap him all kinds of razzing from his co-workers._

He made his third call. "Scheuen, any calls come through? . . . Not on the land line. Nothing happening on her cell? . . . It's still shut down or out of order, huh. . . . . . . No, I've not read that damn blog. . . I'm working on a murder case. . . I heard that already . . . and that . . . Yeah right. No I'm not sleeping with her. . . No, I don't have any plans to sleep with her . . . thanks. Keep monitoring, will ya?"

_Was there anyone in Asheville that didn't read Regina's damn blog? And what the hell kinda trash was she writing about him? He debated looking up the blog but thought that it just might make blood run out of his ears._

He was ready to start pacing when he looked up at Miss French's portrait for a moment. It seemed to calm him down.

_Damn, but she was a fine looking woman._

He took a couple deep breaths and then returned to the woman's journal and began reading.

_Well, she definitely was not a lesbian. She wrote about the different men in her life. Gaston – she'd thought he was a muscle-bound jerk but with some real art talent. She did value the portrait he had done of her and struggled to reconcile the delicacy of the picture with the crudeness of the man. She had realized early on that there could never be anything permanent between them and had tried to back out of the relationship gracefully. Gaston, however, was not one to understand subtlety (she wasn't able to do the 'we're in different places right now and both need our room to grow' brush-off). The breakup had been more forceful and direct than she had wanted it to be. _

_And Nolen – nothing sexual there. From Miss French's perspective the guy was most fortunate - involved in an ideal marriage with his soul mate. She evidently knew Ms. Nolen and had ended up hiring her for some part-time work. Miss French was immensely grateful to the guy for helping her out. _

_And Leroy – she wrote about what a good friend he was and how glad she had been that he had been able to connect with that special someone. _

_Now there was Killian. She wrote a lot about him. She was taken with his good looks but there was something off about him. She suspected he was keeping company with Cora, certainly taking money from her. She didn't quite trust him, but enjoyed being with him. _

_She was thinking about marrying the man, not because she was in love with him but because she had reached a point in her life that she had given up on finding anyone any better. _

Gold found this an unenviable, but understandable position.

_Miss French wrote that she had always believed there was someone out there, someone special, someone who would sweep her off her feet. She wanted a man she could trust and respect. She wanted a man who was capable. That was her word – capable. _

_She also hoped she might be able to have mind blowing sex with the man. _

_Apparently she had never had great sex with any man. She had come to believe that just maybe there was something wrong with her. _

_She confessed that she had never had an orgasm that she hadn't given herself._

_She wondered if she was some kind of latent lesbian. But she wasn't attracted to other women sexually. She never had fantasies of being with another woman. No, she liked men. Definitely liked men. _

_Especially smart men. Men she could have a conversation with, a discussion with, hell, even an argument with. Men who weren't intimidated by her intellect. _

Gold nearly blushed at some of her more explicit writing_. She'd gone into graphic details of what she wanted in a sexual partner . . . and how she wanted it. _There was a dark side of Gold who read with some perverse appreciation about her preferences – he could have done those things. Yeah, he could have kissed her everywhere she wanted to be kissed. Yeah, he could have put her in that particular position to have his way with her. Yeah, he'd've been comfortable allowing her to do that to him. And oh yeah, he would definitely would have enjoyed doing that particular mild kink with her. Nothing over the top, he thought, just a little fun and games.

Yeah, he thought with some level of satisfaction, he could have _so_ gratified her appetites . . . but, of course, now it was too late.

It was eight in the evening. Clark had already been by with the cat necessities and Gold had carried the items down to his car. Clark had also brought Gold a soft drink, but Gold had otherwise passed up food. He hadn't realized it was so late. He'd settled back down behind Miss French's delicate writing desk.

The door to the apartment opened again without so much as a tentative knock or 'hello.' It was Regina.

"I happened to see the lights on," she told him. "Have you sublet this apartment? You're here often enough to pay rent."

"Any objections?" Gold asked her.

"Yes, actually I do have some. I object to you prying into Belle's diary, and especially her emails and letters, particularly those from me."

"Why? Yours are the best in the bunch," Gold replied.

"Thanks, but I didn't write them to you. Haven't you any sense of privacy?"

"Murder victims have no claim to privacy."

"Have detectives who buy portraits of murder victims a claim to privacy?" Regina asked him coyly. "Spencer told me that you've already put in a bid for it."

If the comment made Gold uncomfortable he didn't show it. "That's none of your business," he said sharply.

"Lieutenant Gold, did it ever strike you that you're acting very strangely?" Regina began circling him. "It's a wonder you don't come here like a suitor, with roses and a box of candy – gas station roses and drugstore candy, of course."

He didn't respond to her jibe. Regina came over to him and leaned down. "Have you ever dreamed of having Belle as your wife? By your side at the policeman's ball or listening to the heroic story of how you got a silver shinbone from a gun battle with a drug dealer?" She pulled back. "Oh, I see you have."

Gold's lips were drawn and thin. "Why don't you go home? I'm busy here."

"Perhaps we can make a deal, after all when two people both want something the other has, a deal can always be made. You want the portrait. Perfectly understandable. I want my possessions – my vase, my clock and my screen. Also perfectly understandable. Now, if you . . . "

"Get going," Gold's tone was sharp.

Regina was miffed, but she took the hint. "You better watch out, Gold, or you'll end up in some basement psychiatric ward. I don't think they've ever had a patient who fell in love with a corpse." She stomped out in a complete tiff, leaving him alone.

Gold now sat in the darkened room. Outside things had begun to cool off some and he could tell a summer storm was brewing. It would likely begin raining shortly.

He had been working on the case for three days now, having been called in on Sunday.

Who had killed Belle French?

He hardly thought it was a random act of violence. Someone had climbed three flights of stairs, stood outside the door with a gun full of buckshot, rang the bell, and fired into the woman's face. No, this was a crime of passion, of furious anger, of blinding rage.

But given Belle French, everyone's Golden Girl, loved by everyone, hated by no one, the biggest stumbling block was finding anyone with a motive. So who wanted her dead? He went down the list.

_Cora – _Miss French's attorney and the executor of her will. She'd stand to inherit a tidy sum – hardly worth murder given how rich Cora was to begin with. So it might be passion. Cora almost certainly had something going with Miss French's would-be fiancé. Was Cora jealous enough to remove her competition? A shot gun didn't seem her style.

_Regina_ – Miss French's mentor. Again money wasn't a factor here. Regina, he had divined, had a vast sexual appetite, not confined to either gender. She certainly felt she had a right to tell Miss French who she could see and who she couldn't. She'd gone out of her way to break up several relationships, notably the painter Gaston and the current love interest Killian. But Miss French had never given the slightest indication that she was interested in Regina – not that way. Was Regina off kilter enough to say if she couldn't have Miss French, then no one else could?

_Killian _– the would-be fiancé. What was going on between him and Lacey? He stood to gain a lot of money if the marriage to Belle went through and he was too smart to fuck it up by having a fling with some model. Gold figured that a smart woman like Miss French would have asked for a pre-nup – but then again, love could be deaf, blind and stupid – maybe she was going forth without one. He'd need to check with Cora about that. It was most likely that passion would be the motive here. Maybe Miss French had broken off the engagement and in a fit of rage, Killian had shot her. Gold shook his head – that seemed like an awful expenditure of energy for Killian who struck him as consummately lazy.

_Jefferson _– the business partner. He stood to gain a lot of money with Miss French's death if he inherited the business, particularly the company name. But the man seemed to genuinely like Miss French. He seemed content to go on with just doing his designs and not having to worry about the business.

_Mrs. Potts_ – the maid. Gold eliminated her. Fiercely loyal. No apparent motive.

_Ashley Sweep – _the model. Miss French was her bread and butter. No sense of any romantic rivalry. She seemed an unlikely suspect.

_Ruby Wolfe _ \- the model. She talked about Miss French like a friend. Again no sense of money issues, no romantic stuff going on. She also seemed unlikely.

_Lacey Redfern – _the model. Not enough on her to make a decision. What was her relationship with Killian? She was supposed to be that troglodyte's, Keith Nottingham's, girlfriend. She seemed to be missing. Really missing – her kitten left to fend for itself, her car left at Miss French's apartment complex. What if Miss French had caught her stealing as others had hinted that Lacey would do. Maybe Miss French had fired her and Lacey had taken revenge and high-tailed it out of town in Miss French's car. _Why would she take a more visible car if she was running away?_

Gold shook his head. It was a stretch.

There were others, _Ariel Poole - _ Miss French's landlady, but there were no problems there. Miss French paid her rent on time, was a well-behaved tenant, didn't engage in anything illegal. Miss French was a confident and a friend.

_David Nolen - _Miss French's behind-the-scene business partner. Again he was making hand over fist money with his little investment. Miss French's death didn't benefit him in any way.

_Gaston Grande_ \- the semi-gifted painter, semi-ex-boyfriend. Murder would take too much effort and take away time from his other bimbi.

_Keith Nottingham -_ Lacey Redfern's boyfriend. No apparent motive there unless – and this got complicated, he was mad at Miss French for firing his girlfriend, assuming Miss French had fired her.

He briefly considered _Leroy - _well he was considering everyone. No, Leroy gave Miss French credit for hooking him up with the love of his life. Plus she was a regular, well-paying customer.

No, he figured, it would likely be one of his top three contenders. But trying to figure out which one. _Plus there was the aggravation of not having the murder weapon. What the hell had the killer done with it? Has he or she walked out of the building carrying the damn thing or had he or she hidden it somewhere? Was it still in the building?  
_

He mulled over what Regina had said to him. _What the hell had made him bid on her portrait? _He was sitting there in the dark when lightning hit nearby and lite up the room, briefly illuminating the room and the portrait. She was gorgeous no doubt.

_Hell, the woman was breath-taking. _

He shook himself. So,the woman was beautiful, for sure, but what was he going to do with her picture in his big cold, lonely house. He poured himself some of her Johnny Walker Blue and sipped it, removing his jacket and loosening his tie. He sat in one of her plush chairs, one of the chairs he could sit in and look up at her portrait.

Why couldn't he have met Miss French . . . Belle . . . when she was alive? She was everything he might ever have wanted in a woman. Kind, intelligent, creative, kind, especially kind. Women had not been kind to him. Life had not been kind to him.

He never felt that women were kindly disposed towards him. Belle sounded like someone who would have looked twice at him. She might have accepted an invitation to dinner from him.

What was it Regina had said? Had he imagined her as his wife, walking beside him, listening to him, making love to him?

Yes, he had. But he had kept telling himself she was dead. He had kept telling himself that even if she were alive, there were such differences between them. She was cultured and classy – he was a hardened man from the streets. She was rich – he had modest means. She was nice – he was, well, not. He was violent and she was - sweet.

His heart hurt thinking about this woman. He felt that he was getting misty-eyed. He wiped his eyes.

_Get a grip on yourself, man. The woman's dead. Even if she were alive, you wouldn't have had a chance with her. She's so much better than you, so much better. Entirely too refined – moved in completely different social circles. _

He sat in her chair, as if he was one of her guests, maybe her date, drinking her liquor, basking in her beautiful apartment as if she was admiring him. He would have brought her flowers – nice flowers from a florist. And candy, some of the good stuff, like Godiva chocolates.

Or jewelry . . . like a necklace, or earrings . . . or a ring.

It was dark and into the night, about eleven. Everything in the apartment was dark. He had startled awake and had automatically reached for his gun. He could hear the rain pounding down. There was a hair's breadth moment of disorientation and he realized that he was still in Belle's apartment. He had fallen asleep in the chair.

Something had awakened him. He sat still trying to figure out what had awakened him when the sound recurred.

It was a key in the lock.

Someone was unlocking the door to come in.

Without a second thought, Gold pulled out his gun and waited.

The door opened.

"What are you doing here?"

Gold sat stock still, struggling to register what was in front of him.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

He barely found his voice; all that came out was a whisper, "You're alive!"

She spoke firmly, yet he found her voice soothing and melodious, "If you don't get out at once, I'm going to call the police."

He found his voice and managed to ask, "You're Belle French, aren't you?"

**Again, thank you, thank you, to my wonderful, supportive reviewers (hope some of your questions may have been answered in this chapter): onlyinyourdreams77, MyraValhallah, Erik'sTrueAngel, juju0268, deweymay, Robin4, jewel415, Tinuviel Undomiel, OneMagician, Aletta-Feather, Grace5231973**

**Guest (fun pieces): and there's now a new piece to this puzzle. Thx so much **

_NEXT: Gold interviews Miss French  
_


	8. Return

A Walk in Ashes

_Gold makes a visit to a car repair facility to interview a limping Keith Nottingham. He corroborates Gaston's story of their whereabouts on the night of the murder. Keith shares that he last saw Lacey Redfern on Saturday morning prior to her leaving out to visit with her mother. After dropping the rescued kitten off at his house, Gold notes the little blue Kia parked in one of Miss French's parking places. He calls to trace the license plate and identifies it as Lacey's car. _

_Gold begins reading Miss French's private journal and begins to think that he might have been just the right man for her. There is an evening visit from a rebarbative Regina who knows of his bid to buy Belle's portrait and mocks him for his infatuation with a dead woman. After she leaves, he settles into Miss French's apartment, drinking her liquor, imagining what being on a date with the woman would be like. Mulling over his lengthy list of possible suspects, he dozes and a summer thunderstorm moves in over the city. He is awakened when someone puts a key in the lock. He is stunned by the woman who enters the apartment, recognizing her as the presumed dead - Belle French. _

**Chapter 8 **

**Return**

"You're Belle French, aren't you?"

The woman looked at him, strangely.

"Aren't you?" he asked again, his voice sharper, more commanding this time. He was standing up and was putting his gun back in the holster.

"I'm going to call the police," and the woman started toward the phone.

"Ma'am, I _am_ the police." The woman stood still, confused, not understanding. "I'm Lieutenant Gold." He got out his badge and held it up for her to see.

The woman turned the light on and took his badge to look at it. "What's all this about?" she asked him.

"Don't you know?" he asked. "Don't you know what's happened?"

"No. What? . . . What do you mean, what's happened?" Miss French was soaked through and dripping onto her floor.

"Haven't you seen the papers? Heard a local news report? Where have you been?"

"I've been up in my cabin. It's in the mountains. We don't get phone service or internet there."

"Don't you even have a radio or television?"

"I have a small TV with dish service. But my television wasn't getting a signal. Lieutenant, I go up to my cabin to unplug, to get away from everything. Now, what has happened?" the woman had a sharp, commanding tone of her own.

"Someone was murdered in this room. Do you have any idea who it was?

"Oh my word! No! I had . . . .have no idea. . . " the woman sat down in one of her dining room chairs, her hand to her mouth. She had paled and her pupils had widened. It looked like an honest response.

"Here, have a drink," he went over to her liquor cabinet and poured her a couple of fingers of Blue.

She shook her head, "I can't . . . I never. . . I don't drink," she protested.

"Drink it," he ordered. "This has been quite a shock." He stood over her while she took a sip. She pulled a face. _No, she wasn't a regular drinker._

"Who has a key to your apartment?" he asked her.

"No . . . nobody," she answered.

"Are you sure?" He was standing close to her and could smell her light perfume.

She nodded, "I'm . . . I'm sure. When did this happen?"

"Last Friday night," and he gestured at the stains on the wall. _Ms. Potts had not been able to scrub them out. _

He watched as Miss French recoiled, obviously horrified.

"We'd been believing that the victim was you. Someone tried to kill you," he told her, very softly.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked him in a whisper turning her big blue eyes on him.

He answered, "Find out who was murdered . . . and then find the murderer." He hesitated considering his options. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to stay here. Someone tried to kill you and they may try again if they know you're still alive."

She shook her head, "But I have no enemies. There's no one who would try to kill me."

He ignored her and asked, "You still packed?"

"Yes, but . . ." she nodded and gestured to the weekend bag she had brought in.

He interrupted, "Why don't you get a raincoat. Then I'm taking you to some place safe."

Miss French was stunned. She nodded and stood. She wobbled and he instinctively put his hands out to steady her, catching her by the elbows. She leaned into his chest.

"I'm sorry. I'm not used to strong drink and . . . and . . . I'm rather clumsy," she confessed pulling herself upright and away from him.

_I should think you're one of the most graceful women I've ever met, he thought. _Gold was still holding her by her arms and didn't immediately let her go. She felt good in his hands. He felt her regain her balance. Reluctantly, he released her.

Miss French gave him a weak smile and went into her hall closet to get a raincoat. She turned towards him holding out an embroidered and bedazzled denim jacket. "This isn't mine. It wasn't here when I left on Friday. I'm pretty sure it belongs to Lacey Redfern. It looks like one she wears a lot. She's one of my models, just about my size with hair about the same color as mine."

"The victim's face was blown off by a blast of buckshot," Gold told her and watched her wince.

"You don't suppose . . . ? Oh my god! Not Lacey!" She wobbled on her feet again. And again he caught her, his hands once more on her arms. _She felt deliciously warm and soft._ For a brief, wonderful moment she leaned into him, her body warm and alive in his grasp. She was crying, sobbing silently into his chest. He felt his hands go around her in a comforting gesture.

"I'm sorry, you must think I'm such a klutz," she talked into his chest. "This is all so much," she sniffed and wiped away tears.

"It is a lot," he agreed and allowed her to rest against him resisting the urge to pat her hair. _Although as close as he was, he could smell her hair. It had that same delicate scent as her perfume and he wanted to bury his face in it. _After a moment he made himself suggest, "Why don't you sit down a moment." He directed her back to the dining room chair and grudgingly released her.

"This is so unfair. Lacey was just starting to get things straightened out. Her life had been such a wreck. And if she was killed by mistake . . . by someone wanting to kill me . . . ." Miss French took several deep breathes. "I think I'll be all right in a moment," she told him.

_If the victim had indeed been Lacey Redfern, that explained why her car was in the lot. _He continued, "This is Tuesday night. You left on Friday. Rather a long weekend, wasn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered.

"What time did you leave out on Friday?"

"About 5:30. I'd just made a call to a friend canceling a dinner appointment," she told him.

"Did you drive your own car or rent one?"

"My own car. I usually keep it in the lot here or in the garage on Rankin."

_Explains why we couldn't find your car._ "Did anyone see you leave?"

"I doubt it."

"Stop anywhere on the way to the cabin?"

"There's a little gas station near Warrior Mountain. I usually stop, use the facilities, get a drink."

"See anyone you know at the gas station?"

"No, they frequently have staff changes and the person waiting the counter wasn't familiar to me."

"Then what?"

"I stopped in Tryon at the IGA and bought a couple of bags of groceries. I didn't see anyone I knew there either," she told him.

"Do you have the receipt for the groceries?" he asked her.

"No, I put it out with the paper and dropped the paper in a recycle bin on the way out."

"Then what?"

"I drove on to my cabin. Nobody I knew saw me on the road," she told him.

"You were there four days. What did you do?"

"I worked in my little garden, took walks in the woods, meditated," she answered him.

"You didn't go out in all that time?"

"No, after the little trip to the grocery store, I had everything I needed in the house."

"So, nobody came to see you?" he asked.

"Nobody." Her eyes glittered, "Lieutenant, I went there to be alone."

"Any phone calls?"

"My battery had gone dead. I don't get any signal at the cabin. I didn't even bother recharging it."

_Explains why we couldn't get a ping on your cell phone. _"Police were up there on Monday. There was no one in the house. Your car wasn't there."

"Oh lord! Yes, I forgot. I'm sorry, I'm still so stunned," she ran her fingers through her hair. "On Monday I took the car, went down to Saluda and went on a hike to Little Bradley Falls - by myself. I was gone for hours. I didn't see anyone, well a couple of other hikers but I couldn't tell you who they were."

"All right then, you were going to marry Killian Jones this week. Thursday, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes," she answered him.

"Yet you went away just before your wedding for a long weekend to be alone."

"I was tired. I'd been working hard."

"You know Killian Jones has a key to this apartment? Why are you lying about that?"

Miss French was indignant, "I know nothing of the sort. He hasn't. I keep a spare in my office but no one knows about that."

"Then how else did the victim, assuming it was Lacey, get into the apartment? Did you let her in?"

Miss French didn't answer obviously perplexed at the situation he'd just described.

He continued on, "Did you think she was in love with Jones? You knew that he'd given her the Rolex that you had given him."

Miss French looked closely at the police officer, her eyes narrowed. "You know all that, do you?" she said softly.

He nodded.

"I knew about Lacey," Miss French told him. "I knew that she was _not_ in love with Killian. She told me so herself."

"When did she tell you?"

"At lunch last Friday." She continued, "I also know she meant nothing to Killian except as a friend. I understand him better than you do."

"I think they were both in your apartment Friday night. Lacey was found in one of your little nightgowns, a white frilly thing, and a pair of your slippers," Gold told her. "That's hardly the regulation costume for an impersonal chat between a man and woman who mean nothing to each other, who are just friends. Did you know or did you suspect he was going to bring her here Friday night?"

Miss French's eyes flashed with a hint of anger, "How could I? I don't know that he did bring her here. And neither do you. You merely assume it."

"Well, what other assumption is possible? That you invited her to stay and then killed her before you drove up to the mountain cabin?"

"You suspect me!" she told him suddenly, sitting up and realizing why he'd been asking her all the questions.

"I suspect nobody and everybody. I'm just trying to get at the truth." _He had to suspect her. He had to suspect everyone. Couldn't she understand that? He needed to know if anyone could verify her presence away from the apartment at the time of the murder._

"I see," she said softly. She got up and walked over to her desk which he'd left in a mess. "You have been trying to get at the truth." She picked up her journal, the white leather bound journal, and held it in her hand. She looked up at him, her cerulean blue eyes locking with his soft brown ones, "You've read things I never meant anyone else to look at."

"Strictly routine," he defended himself, then added, "I'm sorry, Bel . . . Miss French. Really, I am. Right now, I am most concerned about your safety. I think," and here he hesitated, "I should take you to my place. You can have my bedroom and you can lock the door if that would make you feel safer."

"You're a brave man, Lieutenant, inviting a murder suspect into your home," she said with a slight smile. "Is the locked door to keep me safe from you or to keep you safe from me?"

"Maybe a little of both," he answered, sounding more gruff than he'd intended. "Come along, take your bag." He picked up his cane and limped to the door. Carrying her own weekender bag she followed after him.

As they were about to go out the building, he asked, "Where's your car now?"

"In the Rankin Avenue garage. I came by the parking lot here, but there was already a car and a truck parked in both of my places." She looked outside. It was dark and the rain was coming down in buckets. "Walking here, I got soaked."

"What do you drive?" he asked as he led her toward his truck parked in the designated place for her apartment.

"An Aston Martin Vantage," she told him.

"Nice," he told her. _That fit in with what he knew._ "Come on," and through the downpour, he led her to his truck, his carefully restored silver '72 custom crew cab Toyota Land Cruiser truck, that was sitting in one of her two parking places. "It's not as nice as yours but it runs."

Even in the pouring rain, Miss French drew back to look at his truck. "This is so cute!" she exclaimed.

"Yeah, cute, that's just exactly what I was going for," he answered her. _She thought his truck was 'cute.'_ _He wasn't sure how to respond to that._ He took her bag and tossed it into the back of the cab area and then held the door open for her, despite being caught in the downpour of rain.

She had to step up above her knee level to get into the big vehicle and he resisted the urge to put his hand on her derriere to give her a boost. Once she had settled in, he heard her, "Thank you." He then shut the door and went around to the other side to get in the cab's driver's seat.

He got into his seat and shook the rain off of himself. Before he set out, he got on his phone, "Clark . . . yeah . . . that's right . . . uh huh . . . yeah, she's with me . . . no, I don't know yet . . . yeah, go ahead and let Scheuen know. . . . Not Scheuen? . . and you're going off too. . . Then who is it? . . . Dullward and Blythe? . . . Got it. . . Well fill them in before you go . . . Thanks." He hung up.

"Clark and Scheuen and Dullward and Blythe?" Belle asked.

"They're working shifts watching your apartment and your shop."

"Why?"

"Well, we didn't have a motive for anyone to murder you, so one of the possibilities was that maybe you had something in your apartment or your shop that someone wanted and they would be coming after it." He glanced over at her. "We were grasping at straws," he explained.

Miss French replied, "I see." She ventured a glance at this man who had just burst into her life and taken it over. He was handsome she thought, although a little unconventional. She remembered his soft brown eyes and the little crinkles in the corners. She remembered his strong hands on her arms, the strength and warmth of his body as she had rested against him. At the moment, he was focused on the road and traffic. Intensely focused.

"You've been a policeman for a long time?" she asked him as they began driving south out of Asheville.

"Too long. It feels like it's been three hundred years."

"You find your job rewarding?" she asked.

"Sometimes. Sometimes not," he answered.

She sat quietly, as if digesting what he had said. He abruptly added, "I like solving crimes, gathering all the threads and spinning them together to find the guilty party, giving the families of the victims some peace, some sense of closure."

Again she sat quietly for a moment before asking, "Is it hard? To do what you do?"

He thought about it. "Yeah. No matter what other magic I work, I can't bring back the dead, so there's always the loss that won't go away. Even if I solve the crime, I'm still walking in people's ashes."

She sat quietly the rest of the trip. For his part, Gold would occasionally take sidelong glances at the woman.

_If possible, she was more beautiful in person than in her picture. Regina had been right, Gaston hadn't truly captured her, but the skanky son of bitch had come close. No painter would ever capture the energy, the true loveliness that seemed to shine through her. _

_And he'd just told her more about himself in the last ten minutes than he had told anyone in the last ten years. _

They pulled off the main highway and began to wend their way up through some narrow roads. The trees were dense on both sides of the highway and there were few lights besides the headlights of the truck. It wasn't long before Gold pulled off onto a very narrow paved road and slowed up. The rain was heavy enough that it obscured his home, but Miss French could tell that it was a large two, maybe even three, storied structure. Gold stopped shortly to press a remote, opening the garage door and then pulling into a garage that was attached to the interesting dark dwelling.

Gold reached up to a remote again and closed the garage door. He reached back and grabbed her bag and the kitten's bag and stepped down out of the truck into the semi-darkness of the garage. He went around and held out his hand to assist Miss French getting out of the truck. She looked around. There was enough light for her to make out that the garage was neatly ordered with several shelves and cabinets along the side. It looked like there might be a small woodworking shop in the back corner. She trailed the police officer through a door that went directly into his kitchen.

Gold was most conscious that his little home was hardly fashionable. The furnishings were an odd mixture of antiques and Ikea hacks. Some of his pieces had been scavenged and he had spent time restoring them. Others were bland store minimalist pieces and he had spent time personalizing and upgrading them.

He turned on the light and they were both left standing in the kitchen. He set the kitten's bag on the floor and put Miss French's weekender on a chair in the kitchen.

He saw that she was looking around – his ordinary fridge, his ordinary stove, his ordinary dishwasher. It was all . . . well . . . ordinary. _Well, at least the place was clean . . . well mostly_. He felt a little awkward with her standing in his kitchen – as if some ethereal angel had dropped from heaven and landed in his . . . ordinary house.

"Do you need a shower . . . or need to brush your teeth? . . . Or anything?" he asked _feeling a bit nervous, as if he were the captain of the chess team who was out on a date with the prom queen_.

"Truth be told, I'm a little hungry," she confessed. "I've not eaten anything. I was planning on getting back and fixing myself a little something."

_Now that was something he could do something about . . . and, now that he thought about it, he was hungry too. _He picked up the phone. "You like pizza?"

She grinned. "Of course."

"I'll call Iannucci's. They're still open and they'll deliver to me. What do you want on it?"

"I'm pretty easy," Miss French told him. "Whatever you recommend."

He nodded and speed dialed. "Yeah . . . Gold here. Right. . . . I want the large house special. Is Gus delivering?" he asked. "Perfect. Thanks." He turned back to Miss French. "I order from them a lot. They have my address on file."

"Excellent," Miss French told him. "Now, where can I put my things?" she asked. They were still standing in his kitchen.

"Oh, here," and he led her back by the living area to a hallway and then to a large bedroom complete with a fireplace and a small sitting area. "I'll get some fresh sheets," he told her. He was pretty sure he had an extra pair and foraged in the closet in the hall that had one shelf devoted to his linens. He was glad to find them where he thought they should be.

When he came back in, he saw Miss French staring at the room, particularly the bed. "This is a genuine rice bed, isn't it? Not a reproduction? I can tell it's not a standard size." She had also noted the pecan paneled walls, the tin tiles on the ceiling, the extraordinary period lighting, the polished wooden floors, the elegant Persian rug, the carved mahogany chifforobe.

"It's a Thomas Elfe original," he confirmed _impressed that she could recognize the genuine article_. "I had to do a little work on it but it is authentic."

"Wow!" she said. "I've never slept on anything this nice," she told him. She looked around. "This room is extraordinary. You have some really nice things, you know."

"A few nice things," he agreed. "I got the house after it had been on the market for three years and they were about to bulldoze it and just sell the land. It was in . . . serious disrepair. I got it for a song. After paying for a new roof, and a new heating/cooling system, this was the first room I renovated. My plan is to ultimately turn this into something like a library or office and move the bedroom upstairs." _Lord, he was just chattering away. How could she possibly be interested?_

"You did a terrific job," Miss French told him, very impressed. "Did you do all the work yourself?"

"Not the big jobs, the roofing and the heating and cooling. And I can't do electrical. But the carpentry work, the furniture restoration, those are mine."

She reached for the sheets, "I'll take care of making the bed," she told him graciously. "You go and listen out for that pizza."

He left her in his bedroom. He went back to the kitchen. He checked his fridge. He had beer and some soft drinks – no organic juices or alkaline water. He had mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise. And some liquid smoke _he liked to put that on his burgers._ No fruit. No vegetables, unless you counted pickles. There was an opened jar of ragu sauce and some eggs, a half-empty gallon of milk, pre-cooked bacon and some pre-grated cheese. He went into the living room and picked up a bit, mainly newspapers, junk mail, and odd paperwork. Miss French came back out carrying the original set of sheets she'd taken off his bed.

"Oh, another real fireplace!" she exclaimed as she handed them off to him and sat down in front of the hearth. "I have gas logs. They're lovely but the real thing smells so fantastic."

"I used the fireplaces a lot last winter. I hadn't gotten insulation in then, but that's since been addressed. I'm hoping this winter won't be so drafty." He took the sheets off her hands and deposited them in the little laundry room in the hallway, shutting the folding doors. When he returned he saw that she had found the matches he kept on the mantle and had lit about ten of the candles he had sitting around.

"I hope you don't mind. I enjoy candlelight so much myself and when I saw all your candles . . . "

"No problem," he waved off her concerns. She had sat on the little sofa in front of the fireplace, kicking her shoes off and pulling her feet up. He joined her and was immediately struck by how lovely her face appeared illuminated by the candlelight. It brought out the iridescence of her skin. Her lips were pursed in a sweet rosebud, the color of a young red rose. As she curled up next to him, she ran her tongue over her slightly parted lips. He had to stop himself from leaning in, from pressing his own lips to hers.

_He felt like he knew her, knew her well. He had to keep reminding himself that she didn't know him. She had no reason to trust him. She hadn't spent the last two days staring at a portrait of him, finding out all about him and his secret little desires, and pondering what a life with him might be like. _

The doorbell rang giving him a welcome reprieve from his musings. He reached for his cane and struggled to a stand, his leg aching in the rain. Miss French watched him, noting his difficulties moving around. He opened the door and paid the young man for the pizza, and, she suspected, gave him a hefty tip. _Poor kid, making deliveries out in this horrid weather._

He brought the pizza back into the living room and set it on a small coffee table in front of the fire.

"Can I get you a plate?" he asked.

"Only if you're getting yourself one. I'm fine eating right out of the box," she told him getting up as he prepared to walk back into the kitchen.

"How about . . . what to drink?" He called back from the kitchen.

"Beer or a soft drink. Whatever you're having," she called back to him.

"Beer it is." _Damn she made things easy. _

**Thank you, thank you to my ever-inspiring reviewers: Grace5231973, onlyinyourdreams77, Erik'sTrueAngel, MyraValhallah, Robin4, jewel415, OneMagician, kagi-chan2, cynicsquest, Tinuviel Undomiel, Aletta-Feather, juju0268, deweymay, orthankg1 (chapter 6), Guest (knew it!) and Chauchi (6 &amp; 7) thx so much –twyla**

_NEXT: Belle spends the night and provides Gold with several surprises_


	9. Spending the Night

**A Walk in Ashes**

_Gold has been stunned by the return of Belle French. She seems to know nothing of the brutal murder that has taken place in her apartment and her distressed reaction seems genuine. He questions her at length, trying to discover her actions on the night of the murder (and if she has an alibi). Concerned that she may not be safe to remain in her apartment, he decides that she will spend the night at his house. _

_Confused, yet intrigued, Miss French agrees to this. She finds the detective attractive and recognizes that he is likely a very capable individual. She is impressed with the renovations he's done on his rescued home. He orders her pizza for a late supper._

**Spending the Night**

**Chapter 9**

_Damn she made things easy. _And he brought back two sturdy paper plates and two beers. Miss French had disappeared. He sat on his sofa and in a moment she returned to join him, sitting on the other end and drawing her legs up under herself.

"I plugged my phone in to recharge," she told him.

"You know you can't call anyone," he corrected her. _Did she not understand? Someone had just tried to kill her._

"But . . . but, I've got to let my friends know that I'm alive," she protested.

"Someone just tried to kill you, probably, at least, possibly, one of your so-called friends. You're supposed to be dead and it's a good idea you stay that way for a while! I'm trying to keep you alive and safe."

"But?!" she was preparing to argue but he cut her off.

"I'm sorry, Miss French, but I must insist you do as I say."

"Am I under arrest?" she asked him.

He didn't answer right away, but finally, sitting in the half-dark room and in a quiet voice, he told her, "No, but if anything should happen to you this time, I wouldn't like it."

She sat a moment just looking at him. _That was interesting._ Then she smiled back at him. "All right. I understand."

_No you don't, angel, he thought. You couldn't possibly understand. _"There's one more thing," he said aloud, not looking at her. "You may as well know what I know - some of it, at any rate. It'll save time and a lot of unnecessary fencing. I know that you went away to make up your mind whether you'd marry Killian Jones or . . . or not. What did you decide? I want the truth." He looked up into her eyes.

Miss French dropped her eyes, "I decided not to marry him."

_His heart skipped a beat. It shouldn't have, but it did. _

They finished the pizza off between them. She sipped her beer and he tried to do the same but ended up swilling it. If he'd been by himself he would've gotten a second beer.

"Where are you going to sleep?" she finally asked in a low tone.

"I'll sleep out here on the sofa in case someone does try to come in. I don't think it's likely that anyone will be coming here to get at you, but I still want to be sure you're safe."

"So you'll be out here to protect me," she said more to herself than to him. She looked up at him, "I think I'd like to get that shower now if you don't mind."

"Yes ma'am. There should be some towels in the bathroom."

She got up and cleared their plates, the cans and the empty pizza box, "Do you recycle?" she asked as she carried them into the kitchen.

_Recycle? Huh? No. _"Yeah," he answered, "leave them on the counter please," he called out to her.

"Lieutenant Gold," she spoke as she came back through the living room.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered.

"Thank you," she smiled at him again before heading back to his bathroom.

He heard the door to the bathroom open and then he heard her voice, "Why hello little kitty."

_Oh shit. _"I forgot I just rescued a kitten. Let me feed her again and move her out of the bathroom," he was preparing to follow her into the bathroom for the little feline, but Miss French came out cuddling the kitten.

"She's such a sweet little thing, but so skinny. Where'd you find her?"

He hesitated, "Lacey Redfern's apartment."

"Poor dear," she said and patted the kitten who was clearly enjoying the gentle attentions of Miss French.

Gold had opened another can of food and put it in the cereal bowl from the bathroom which he'd moved out to the kitchen. He replenished the kitten's water and allowed her free reign while he prepped the sofa into his bed for the night. Soon enough, he saw the kitten come into the living area where he was getting settled for the night.

He took an old blanket out of his linen closet and laid it on the sofa and set down a pillow. He slipped off his day clothes and into a pair of sleep pants, keeping on the tee-shirt he'd worn during the day. Then he lay down on the sofa, sliding under the blanket.

Belle had gone on into his bathroom. She looked it over. It proved to be a visual experience. There were tiny black and white octagonal tiles in a geometric pattern on the floor. There were larger black, white and not-to-be-believed turquoise tiles two-thirds of the way up the wall. There was also an amazing turquoise bathtub but the toilet and free-standing sink were white porcelain. It reminded her of 50's, even 40's, styling and she suspected that was the last time the bathroom had been updated. There were a couple of towel racks with clean white towels hanging here and there. There was an old nightstand that had been upcycled to stand in for a counter next to the sink. She looked over the cabinet top – a deodorant, a hair brush, comb, shaving supplies, sunscreen, drug store shampoo and conditioner, Dial bar soap, toothbrush and toothpaste. Everything that was absolutely needed and nothing that was absolutely not needed – a man's bathroom. She also spotted the litter box and the old blanket which the man had used for the kitten.

From what she had seen of the rest of the house, well, the kitchen was pure industrial chic with bottom line basic appliances and the living room, was . . . well . . . Sears blew up. But there was that bedroom with two hundred plus year old antiques, beautifully restored, the work of a true artist. There was a staircase and she knew there was at least one more floor, but it didn't seem quite the time to ask for a tour.

Belle thought about the man. She had been frightened when she came into her own apartment and found him sitting there, his eyes glinting in the reflected light from the street, his gun in his hand even though it was not pointing at her. He had shown her his badge, given her that terrible news and then his soft voice and strong arms had comforted her.

Good lord! She realized that she was attracted to him! Really attracted to the man! On some kind of visceral, purely physical level, _or was it on a psychic, higher-plane level_? Nothing like she had ever felt for Gaston or even Killian.

She told herself the sensible things, that she had just met the man. And that she was not a floozy. She reminded herself that she was technically still an engaged woman. And that she had just met the man.

But something . . . _something_ was there.

But why? He wasn't her type at all. It was quite apparent that he was a complex dark individual. She knew he was a violent man; he'd already pulled a gun when they were back in her apartment and he made no secret of the fact that he carried one even when he was in his own house.

But this same man had rescued a poor little kitten and taken it home to care for it. And he'd rescued this remarkable house and was taking care of it. Probably had rescued that vintage truck of his.

_Odd, she felt somehow connected with the man, as if they were on the same wavelength . . . she'd felt it instantly. _

_She looked at herself. She thought she looked a fright with dark circles under her eyes and her hair standing out like a halo around her head. _

_Huh, he probably thought that she was a young, flighty, silly dress designer with equally silly friends. He had poked through her private journal – oh lord, what all had he read in there? She closed her eyes. Hopefully he had missed that rant she'd had about how she might like to do the naughty. That would be totally embarrassing if he'd read all that stuff. _

She borrowed his brush and ran it through her hair._ He was rather handsome, she remembered her musings in the truck. Not in a traditional manner, but his eyes were pretty and his crooked smile compelling. He was used to telling people what to do, which – another day – might aggravate her. But tonight it had been comforting to turn the control over to him. _

_Oh and, the intelligence was there, she could tell that. She'd seen copies of The Wall Street Journal on the sofa and a box of Architectural Digests. There had also been copies of Fine Woodworking, Woodcraft, and Arts and Crafts Furniture. She noted that he kept small stacks of hardbacks in the living room – all nonfiction works focusing on politics, economics or foreign policy. She had always been partial to intelligent men. They were few and far between. She sighed. _

_Maybe he was her type after all. _

She stripped off her clothes and began the shower.

Lying there on his sofa, he could hear her in the bathroom, grabbing a warm shower_._ _Good lord, she was naked with just a wall between them._ Then the shower stopped and he knew she was changing into some type of sleeping garment and he couldn't prevent himself from wondering what she might be putting on. He remembered the silky, filmy thing that Lacey was found in and he wondered if all her sleepwear was like that. Or would she have on some little sleep shorts that would show off her legs and a tank top that she would wear braless that would show off her sweet rounded breasts? Maybe she slept in an old tee-shirt and just her panties.

_She probably thought of him as some crude cop, lacking class, lacking any appreciation for the finer things. Not on any level with her. _

He closed his eyes. _He didn't have a chance with her. _

It got quiet and he realized that now she would be slipping in between the sheets of his bed - his sheets – in his bed.

He felt something land on the sofa beside him and jumped, reaching for his gun. He realized almost immediately that it was the kitten. Making little purry sounds, she walked along the length of his body and then jumped to the top of the sofa. She trilled and settled her little body above his.

Gold realized that he was sweating. He stared at the ceiling, taking deep breaths, calming himself, pushing himself into a meditative state. Finally he fell into a restless sleep populated by dreams of a lush and lovely brunette who hogged the covers and would sometimes give an adorable little snort when she shifted positions.

He was awakened when he felt his phone buzzing.

It was his cell phone. "Yeah?" he recognized the number as Dullward's. _God damn, it was two in the morning._

"Gold? This is Dullward. I've been monitoring the cell."

"And?"

"It came alive a little while ago and someone just made a call. Wanna hear it?

"Hell yeah, go ahead," he told the young officer shaking himself awake. _This could not be good._

_"Hello?_

_ "This is me. I'm . . ."_

_ "Be careful what you say on the phone. Where are you?"_

_ "I'm at the policeman's home in south Asheville. He's here, concerned that I might be in danger. I just wanted you to know . . ."_

_ "Of course. I understand. We'll have to find some place to talk. We'll try to connect some time tomorrow. Let me know the moment you're free."_

Gold thanked the officer and then asked them to beef up the watch on Belle's office and her apartment. He wondered if he should include the mountain cabin in the surveillance.

_Well shit, he thought as he hung up the phone. This was an unfortunate turn of events. _

_He'd been hoping she was innocent._

At some point he must have drifted off back asleep. He knew he had fallen asleep because he woke up. The sweet smells of frying bacon and perking coffee assailed his nostrils. Momentarily confused, he leaped from the sofa, grabbing his gun and cane and quickly made his way towards the kitchen, carefully going around the corner to find the delectable Miss French bustling about, pulling down plates, humming some little tune and . . . she was cooking in his kitchen . . . cooking. The kitten was sitting in the kitchen watching the cook.

Miss French glanced first at him as he stepped into the kitchen. Then she glanced at his gun. "What? Did you think somebody had broken in to make you breakfast?" she asked.

He stood a moment in awe. She was wearing one of his black tee-shirts. That seemed to be pretty much _all_ she was wearing. _Was she wearing panties under that tee? _It covered her butt but left a lot of leg for his viewing pleasure. Plus it was stretched out in a most interesting manner - stretched out in all the right places. She noticed his gawking.

"I hope it was all right I borrowed a tee-shirt. You didn't give me time to re-pack and most of the things I had, I needed them to go into the wash. I went ahead and put a load in your washer and they're going through the dryer now. Then I put the sheets in; they're washing now. And I fed your kitten."

"Fine. It's fine," he somehow had swallowed and found his voice. He double-checked to see if the safety was on, and then put the weapon in the back of his pants. _He didn't think shooting his own ass off would impress anyone. _

"Does she have a name?" she asked him.

_Huh? Oh, the kitten. _"No, I just got her yesterday. Any suggestions?"

"Callie, 'cause she's a calico. Or Sugar, 'cause she's so sweet. Or Baby, 'cause she's just a tiny little thing. Or Susie or Sweetie . . ."

The kitten had gone over to rub herself against Gold's leg.

"I'm not good with names," Gold told Miss French. "Dearie, stop that," he spoke to the kitten who was sampling the texture of his pants with her tiny claws.

She meowed at him.

"You like Dearie?" Miss French asked the kitten and the animal mewed again. "Well, that settles it," she told him.

"You didn't have to fix me breakfast," he told her walking over to check out her progress. _Damn, she'd fixed him breakfast!_

"It's an easy way for me to say thank you. My mother would always listen to my dreams of becoming a designer and then teach me another recipe. How do you like your eggs?"

"Over easy," he said, watching her melt a little butter in his cast iron skillet and crack an egg into it. _He had butter in the house? _

"Me too," she told him. "Can you make some more coffee?" she asked him.

"I'm a police officer. Of course I can make coffee," he told her.

"Make me another one too, please," she asked him and soon enough he set two cups of hot coffee in front of her.

"How do you like yours?" she asked him.

"I take it black," he told her.

She made a face at him _darned if she didn't look adorable – the woman couldn't help herself. _"I like mine with lotsa milk and some sugar," she told him. "You didn't have a lot of ingredients, but I did manage to find some flour, eggs, some pre-cooked bacon and a couple of other things."

In no time at all, she had set bacon, home-made biscuits, hashbrowns and eggs in front of him.

_He hadn't known that he had the ingredients for such a breakfast. _He had cut open one of the soft biscuits that had just a touch of crispness on the outside and put some butter inside it. He watched the butter immediately start to melt into the sponge-like holes that covered the interior surface of the biscuit. _Now he knew where the term 'mouthwatering' had come from._ "How did you do the potatoes?" he asked her; he knew he hadn't had any of those.

"Canned," she told him, blithely.

_She had been through his cabinets. And his fridge. _

She was smiling gently at him. _It had been a little sad looking for food in the man's house. He had lotsa processed, frozen meals, hamburger helpers and ramen noodles. She'd found a single stick of butter in the freezer. No fresh fruit or vegetables. Nothing organic. He ate like a college student._

_It had been a challenge for her to pull together a nutritious breakfast. _

_She enjoyed the occasional challenge. _

Miss French joined him at his little table and served herself a plate. They began eating.

"This is a lovely lot you have. All the trees in the backyard. Like you're in some kind of enchanted forest. You wouldn't know you were just ten minutes from the city," she told him. "I went out on your deck earlier. It's beautiful."

"Yeah, I bought the house because of that deck," he answered stuffing his face with egg, bacon, biscuit and hashbrowns.

"I don't suppose you get enough time to spend on it?" she asked.

"I get enough," he told her, a bit on the grumpy side. _She was interrupting his eating._

"I'm sorry, I'm just chattering on here. I guess I'm a morning person," she apologized.

"Ma'am, you can go ahead and sing an aria if you want. You just fixed me breakfast." He swallowed another mouthful. "This bacon is delicious. What did you do to it?"

"Added some of your liquid smoke and rubbed in some black pepper."

"Nice," he said and she beamed back at him.

"What are your plans for me today?" she asked him. She was looking him over. She thought that in his sleep pants and tee-shirt, knowing he was carrying his gun, he managed to look extraordinarily masculine . . . and virile . . . and safe . . . and attractive.

_No, this line of thought wasn't safe for her. _She shouldn't be looking at his strong, compact body. She could instead focus on his face.

Yes, his face. His hair was all ruffled, brown with little streaks of grey and his cheeks and chin were sporting early morning beard bristle. His eyes still crinkled at the corners and were all soft and brown.

_No, stop it. That way lay madness_.

Maybe she could focus on his hands with their strong capable fingers. She could just imagine what those agile, slender fingers might do if he started to touch her and trail his hands down her . . .

_No, no, no!_ Perhaps she needed to focus on the food.

"I've got a friend that you can stay with," he told her.

He kept trying not to look at her shapely legs, her very fine ass and her perky breasts that were stretching his shirt way out of shape.

_No, no, no!_ He needed to focus on her face.

Her face, her angel face with her soft curls draping around her features like a burnished silken frame, her eyes, bright and sparkling and her little bow of a mouth, looking full and moist, ready to be kissed and kissed thoroughly.

_No, no, no!_ Maybe he could focus on her hands.

Little but strong and supple. He could only just image those clever fingers wrapping themselves around his . . . .

_No, no, no_! Better he should focus on his food.

Miss French looked at him for a just a moment. "Sure," responding to his remark about having a friend she could stay with.

"How soon can you be ready?" he asked her.

"Let me finish eating, clean up and see if I can find something to change into. My clothes won't be dry." She suddenly realized, "I probably shouldn't have washed them all." There was that little adorable look again, when she would screw up her nose in a little scowl.

"I'll see if I have something you can borrow. I'll get the other clothes to you later or bring you back here for them," he promised. _He thought he could get by touching her undergarments if he picked them up with other clothing._

Miss French nodded. "This . . . this being dead. It's no fun," she told him.

Gold had to agree. He helped her with cleanup. It went quickly since Miss French had already run a sink with hot soapy water to clean up her cookware while she was working. She sent him off when she began to sweep the floor. "You need to shave, sir." She let her hand briefly rest on his cheek, "This is a nice look but I doubt if it's regulation."

His face burned where she had touched him on his cheek. He managed to give her a tight smile before leaving to get ready. He shaved quickly, grabbed a short shower and then dressed, clean boxers and undershirt, pants, shirt, vest, gun, tie and jacket. He ran a toothbrush over his teeth and a comb through his hair.

He got Miss French some of his own sweats to change into and set them out in the bedroom. She had pulled the sheets back to air out and he could still smell her delicate scent in the bed clothes.

He made two quick phone calls while Miss French was brushing her teeth and changing.

"Yeah, it's Gold . . . Yeah, it's me. Fat good you've been on this case! . . . Yeah, I know you had that fiery six-car pileup to deal with. . . I already know. . . Well, because I ran into the live item last night. . . Uh huh . . . No joke, I'll want your complete report when I get in. Right now, I need a place. . . now . . . wait . . . wait . . . wait a minute. . . you don't even know what I'm going to ask for . . . . . . . . . well, yeah . . . and you know you're the best person . . . it will only be for today, at most . . . No, I don't think she'll mind."

The second phone call was to a friendly judge.

Satisfied that he was getting his way, he waited for Miss French with a sweatsuit jacket in his hands. She came out wearing a pair of sweatpants with an Asheville City Police logo on the side and another one of his tee-shirts. It said "Trainer" on it. She was wearing the same little flat sandals she'd had on the night before. She'd pulled her hair back and up and had wound it into a bun.

If she had makeup on, he couldn't tell. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Before they left out he settled Dearie back in the bathroom with her towel, food and water.

"All right," Belle told him. "I'm ready. Where are we going?"

"To a place nobody goes unless they have to," he told her. "The M. E.'s office."

"M.E.? Isn't that like the Medical Examiner?" she asked trailing him into the garage.

"Yup," he answered, opening the door of his truck for her.

"That's the person who deals with dead bodies and stuff, right?" Miss French asked him.

"Yup," he answered, getting in on the driver's side and cranking up the truck.

"All right," she finally said. She did look back once at the house in the morning light. "Good lord, your house is a Gothic Revival! Absolutely remarkable. They were gonna bulldoze this?"

He nodded.

Miss French continued looking back at the house as they pulled out. It was stunning with striking iron railings, narrow windows, high arches, multiple chimneys, dormers, bits of bric-a-brac gingerbread around the front porch. It was a classic design, dark, compelling, complex.

Much like the man that lived in it.

As they drove back into Asheville, the sun began shining through. It had quit raining and was back to hot. With yesterday's moisture and today's heat, the city had been transformed into one giant sultry, insufferable steam bath.

Gold drove the truck with casual assuredness. He glanced over at his passenger and smothered a smile. Miss French had seemed a bit uneasy about his destination but had accepted it nonetheless. _Brave girl._

He parked in the asphalt lot and led Miss French into the unremarkable cream-green colored concrete block building. It had a small kelly-green sign designating its purpose but for the most part it seemed to have gone out of its way to try to be invisible. They were halted by two guards staffing a body-scanner. Gold was passed through as he was well recognized, but they insisted Miss French walk through the scanner. Once she was pronounced clean, Gold and Miss French began the trek deep into the building, down a flight of stairs to the basement. There the flickering fluorescent-lite hallways were institutional pale green, sterile and smelling of bleach with faded baseboards and white stipple ceiling tiles. Miss French put her hand on his arm, reaching around and under to come up with her arm around his at the elbow.

"This place is creepy," she whispered to him.

"I've always thought so," he agreed with her _wondering if she was aware that the side of her breast was pressed into his arm._ They stopped at a locked door, a heavy metal door with a single high window composed of a lattice of metal wire pressed between two layers of thick glass. Gold punched a code into the door lock and, after a buzzer sounded, opened the door.

They stepped into a small refrigerated reception area. Belle shivered from the onslaught of frigid air and gratefully slipped on the jacket that Gold handed her. Set in the arctic anteroom was a two-seater little sofa with dark green vinyl cushions set on a less-than-sturdy frame laminated to look like wood. The dark green marble-patterned tiled floor was clean but all along the edges was built up with wax, dulling its appearance. They were on the other side of a wall with yet another locked door and a wire-within-glass receptionist's window.

"Swan!" Gold called out sharply. "Out here, now!"

"Keep your panties on," came the surly answer.

**Again, I have to thank my ever supportive reviewers (many who continue to make guesses as to the identify of the killer—as well as the motivation – and just where is that pesky murder weapon) : onlyinyourdreams77, jewel415, Grace5231973, cynicsquest, OneMagician, MyraValhallah, fulltimefanxgirl, Erik'sTrueAngel, kagi-chan2, orthankg1(Chapter 7), deweymay, Robin4, Chauchi, and Wondermorena**

_NEXT:_ _Gold makes a profitable trip to Belle's mountain cabin and Emma shares with Belle all about Gold  
_


	10. Hidden Things

**A Walk in Ashes**

_Gold serves pizza and beer to Belle and confirms that she has decided not to marry Killian Jones. Belle is intrigued with the man, trying to reconcile his clearly violent nature with his efforts toward rescuing things (houses, kittens, trucks). A late night phone call from Belle's cell to an unknown party interrupts Gold's sleep. Belle rises early and fixes him a superior breakfast. During breakfast, both tamp down their ever-growing interest in the other by focusing on the food. Gold drops Belle off at the Medical Examiner's lair. _

**Chapter 10**

**Hidden Things**

"Swan!" Gold had called out sharply.

"Keep your panties on," came the surly answer. And a decidedly feminine face peaked through the latticed window. The woman had her hair pulled back under a cap and was wearing a clear face shield and rubber gloves. She opened the door and handed Gold a bound sheaf of papers.

"Here's your report already. Sorry I didn't get to it earlier, but we'd had those car crash victims that needed to be sorted. Couple of kids involved – that's always tough." The woman came on out into the lobby. "Since we already had an identification and everything looked like it was the French woman I put your autopsy on the back burner. I mean, we were already pretty sure about the cause of death. That's a preliminary. I still have some labs to come back." The woman then noticed Belle who had been hanging back. "Oh hi, you must be Belle French. I'm Emma. So glad you're alive. I'd shake hands but . . . " she held up her gloved hands which were stained with _something_. "probably not the best idea right now."

Gold had taken the report and was perusing it. "Same height, same hair color, same ethnicity. Ok, here it is: dental records didn't match up and blood type didn't match up." He suddenly realized that Miss French was standing at his shoulder peering over at the report. He shut it quickly not wanting her to see the grisly photographs of the body.

Swan had removed her cap, her face shield and then peeled off the rubber gloves. Belle could see the woman had gloriously long blonde hair and deep green eyes.

Swan was apparently checking her out and spoke up, "Wow, you are a cutie. I hear you spent the night with The Dark One?" she asked.

Miss French turned to Gold. "What?"

He shook his head, "It's a _nom de ville_ I picked up after . . . well I . . . picked it up."

"The guys started calling him The Dark One during his undercover drug days. It's one of several nicknames that floated around." Emma explained it to Belle.

"Listen Swan, I have got to get somewhere right away. I should be back after lunch, probably later this afternoon and maybe then we can announce that Miss French is still among the living. I really appreciate you letting her stay with you."

"Yeah, you'll owe me." Emma turned to Belle. "Did he even feed you?"

Belle smiled and nodded. "We ate."

"Where are your clothes, honey?" Emma had noted the police-wear Belle was sporting. "Aren't you supposed to be this top drawer dress designer?"

"Well, I do all right. But right now my clothes are in the dryer at his house. I just had the weekend bag that I'd taken up to the mountain cabin and everything needed washing," Belle explained. "He lent me these."

"Well, we're pretty casual here. No one will notice you dressed like that. Come on," she led Belle back through the door she had come out of. "Tell me, are you squeamish?"

Gold left, knowing that Emma would take great care of his Belle. _His Belle! When had she become his Belle? He doubted she thought of herself as "his Belle." After being dumped at the Medical Examiner's office, he doubted she'd want to spend any more time with him than she had to._

He sent Emma a text to remind her not to let Belle near a phone.

He didn't want to do this but the mountain cabin was the last place that needed to be searched. It had been all locked up earlier in the investigations and no one had been inside the place.

He settled into his truck. Belle had motive – forget this crap that she knew there was nothing going on between Lacey and Killian; what else was she going to say – that she hated the bitch and wanted her dead? Belle had opportunity – she could easily have invited Lacey up to her apartment, called Regina to let her know that she was going up to her cabin and then, when Lacey got to the apartment, Belle could have killed her, hoping that her alibi of being on the road would be a sufficient. Now all he needed was to find the weapon.

He didn't want to believe she had done it, but he knew if he presented the facts as they were now, other officers, his bosses, the D.A., all would believe she was guilty. A love triangle – one of the oldest reasons for murder.

He began the long drive up to Miss French's cabin listening to Lindsey Stirling's violin interpretations. He took the Interstate and drove toward Tryon, taking the Saluda exit onto 176, one of North Carolina's scenic highways,_ which meant it was damnably anfractuous and difficult to navigate_. Eventually he turned off onto a narrow two-lane road which shortly turned into a one and a half lane road with shoulders that were chipping away. His GPS quit getting a signal and he knew he'd have to depend on his recall of the electronic map he'd looked over earlier. Then the one and a half lane road became a gravel one, winding, twisting. Thank goodness he was in a four-wheel drive vehicle, he thought as he finally pulled into her driveway.

It was indeed remote. A nice log cabin with a wrap-around porch and chimney. There were rhododendrons planted all around the place, along with some big rose bushes. There was a small detached garage next to the house. There was a breath-taking view of the valley below.

He drove around back so his truck wouldn't be visible to anyone who might come in after him. _No particular reason – he wasn't expecting anyone but by long habit, he was habitually cautious._ He already had the duplicate key from the one they had found in Miss French's office and he was able to let himself in.

Nice place – definitely had that Miss French touch he'd come to expect. The cabin was small, but not miniscule. There was clever use of space with built-in shelving and hidden cubby holes. There was a great room, a kitchen area, a bedroom and a bathroom. The furnishings were sturdy, a combination of solid wood, metals and some overstuffed natural cotton. Everything was comfortable looking. The kitchen appliances included a Miele stove and a top-drawer Samsung fridge. The bed was a sturdy brass affair that would sleep two comfortably. The mattress had been stripped, probably to air out. He turned on his phone and noted there was "No Service". There was a small television in the kitchen. He flipped it on and a local channel popped up. He changed channels a few times and cut it off.

He added a note to his notebook and then did a thorough search of the cabin. He was in the bedroom, when he heard the door unlock and someone come in. _This was a surprise. _He gave the person a few moments before he stepped out into the main room of the cabin.

There stood Killian Jones with a rifle in his hands - the kind that shot buckshot. And now. . . something that Gold in his quick going over the cabin, hadn't found, there was an opened wall panel - apparently Belle's version of a (secret) gun chest.

"Are you thinking of taking it away, Jones?" Gold asked him as Killian stepping into the living.

"Obviously you already know that I was taking it away. Damn. You'd already searched the cabin before I got here and you knew it was here," Killian responded blandly realizing that he'd walked into a trap.

Gold took the gun from him, using a handkerchief and handling it gingerly. He examined it. "Didn't know, but I had a hunch there might be something else here. It's been fired recently."

"Yes, I had gone out squirrel hunting with it."

"When was that?" he asked.

"Oh, a while back. I . . . I don't know exactly."

"You know about guns, don't you?"

"Yes," Jones answered him.

"So how come you didn't clean it afterwards?'

"I don't know. I suppose I forgot."

"Are these your initials?"

"Yes, but it belongs to Belle. I had given it to her for protection. She didn't want it, but I'd insisted. This cabin is rather isolated. She finally allowed the gun in the cabin when she had this secret wall panel constructed."

"Did you teach her how to use it?"

"No."

"Does she know how?"

"I don't know. It never occurred to me to ask."

"You're a vague sort of fellow, aren't you, Jones?"

"I've spent very little time in observing my own character, Lieutenant Gold."

"This morning was the first opportunity you had to come and get it," Gold stated flatly.

"You've had me followed me everywhere. You ought to know."

"You. . . you realize the spot you're in, Jones?" Gold continued. "I know Belle French is alive and so do you. Do you think Miss French killed her and stashed the murder weapon here?"

"Of course not. Belle wouldn't . . . couldn't kill anyone."

"Then let's try this. How about it was you who took that poor girl to Miss French's apartment. You knew all along it was she who had been murdered. Didn't you know that Miss French would come back any day and spoil the whole thing? Or did you plan to kill her too? Maybe hide the body some place to cover up your first crime?"

"You're delusional, Gold! I'd never kill Belle. I love her."

"Do you? You took a bottle of Jolly Roger to her apartment Friday night when you were there with Lacey Redfern."

"I took it over there more than a week ago.

"Ms. Potts said it wasn't there Friday night when she left. It was there Saturday morning."

"I can't help what Ms. Potts said."

"Where'd you get the key to her apartment?"

"Er. . . I've always had it."

"Not according to Belle French. She says that the only spare keys are in the shop. And you haven't been by the shop in the past few days.

"I . . . uh. . . I had gone by earlier," Jones protested weakly.

"Some time before last Friday, I would guess. That's how you got in. That's how you got the bottle of Jolly Roger in. That's how you got Lacey Redfern in."

"All right. All right," Jones gave in. "I already knew that Belle kept duplicate keys at her office. She hadn't told anyone they were there but I noticed them when I was getting some office supplies for a project. I went over last Friday and I got them and had copies made. I'd asked Lacey to dine with me. I wanted to talk with her. Well, we couldn't go talking in public places – she was fragile and easily upset. I couldn't go to her apartment and I didn't want to take her to mine. There were too many people who might see us."

"So you went to Miss French's empty apartment?"

"Yeah," Jones answered. "I knew Belle would be gone out to this cabin."

"Anyone else know that you were bringing Lacey up to the apartment?"

Jones considered. "I don't know. I know that Belle had talked with Lacey earlier that day. Lacey might have told her she was going to meet with me but I don't know that Lacey knew we'd go to Belle's place. I had talked with Regina that I was going to see Lacey, but I didn't tell her when. And I may have mentioned something to Cora that I was going to see her, but I didn't know any details when I talked with her."

"What was your relationship with Lacey?" Gold asked him.

"We were friends. . . from a long time ago. I was surprised when I encountered her working for Belle. We chatted and got to know each other again. Lacey had come from . . . well kinda a rough background and had run away, ending up in Asheville. She had drifted around quite a bit and had lucked out getting the modeling job with Belle. She was trying to get her life back together but had got tangled up with a . . . an abusive boyfriend. He'd slap her around some and take the money she earned working for Belle. I was trying to help her – I gave her an expensive watch to pawn so she'd have some money of her own. Once I talked to Belle about her, Belle was trying to help her too."

"So you weren't in love with her?"

"No, and she wasn't in love with me," Jones told him.

"So what happened when you got Lacey up to the apartment?"

"We talked there for about four hours . . . and then the doorbell rang and . . . "

"Go on," Gold told him coldly.

"Lacey seemed frightened. It was late at night. But knowing Belle as I've known her . . . I've learned to be surprised at nothing."

"What do you mean by that?" Gold asked him.

"Her friends would come to her with their troubles at all hours of the day or night. I asked Lacey to answer the door."

"Why didn't you go yourself?"

"Supposing one of Belle's friends had found me there. Belle thought me staying over looked a bit sleazy. She was rather old-fashioned that way."

"Why did you open the door at all?"

"We figured that they must have seen the light."

"What about the girl, Lacey? What about her reputation?"

"I asked her to tell them Belle had let her use the apartment while she was away. Anybody that knew Belle would have believed that."

"Yeah, go on," Gold told him.

"Well, then the doorbell rang again. I could hear Lacey's slippers . . . Belle's slippers actually. They were patting across the bare boards between the rugs. Then there was a moment's silence and then an explosion. Of course I ran out but by the time I reached her, the door was closed. She lay there on the floor."

"Did you go out to see who it was?"

"No. It was someone with a gun and I . . . I was too confused, too horrified, terrified, incapable of doing anything. The room was dark. I saw only a vague heap lying on the floor. I . . . I don't think I fully grasped the situation. I think I called her name, but I'm not sure. I . . . I remember kneeling on the floor, trying to feel for a pulse. My first instinct was to call the police."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know or rather, I was afraid - not only for myself, but for Belle. In a panicky sort of way, I felt I must keep out of this to keep Belle out of it. She's a public figure and has her business to think of. This type of thing can hurt a business. I know now how foolish and hopeless it was but there was only one thing on my mind -the safety of a person whose life was dearer to me than my own. Don't you understand that?"

"Did you think Miss French had done it?"

Jones stammered, "I . . . I . . . "

"Did you?"

"I don't remember what I thought."

"Do you think so now?"

"No," Jones seemed sure.

"And you didn't kill Lacey?"

"No."

"On Saturday, when our men went to your apartment to tell you that Miss French was dead you seemed sincerely shocked."

"I was. I hadn't expected that mistake."

"But you had your alibi ready no matter who was dead. 'Course you knew the minute Miss French got back it wouldn't stick."

"Don't you see? I was incapable of thinking that far ahead. I was incapable of thinking at all," Jones was trying desperately to explain. "I was groping for some way to keep Belle's name out of it. I was heartbroken about Lacey and panic-stricken about Belle. I haven't slept a full two hours since this thing happened."

"Let's get back to the present. Miss French called you."

Jones looked up sharply. "You know. . .? Of course, you've been monitoring her cell."

"She phoned you after she told me she wouldn't call anybody. What do you think she wanted?"

"It's perfectly natural she should want to talk to me especially after what's happened."

"You two started talking in code pretty quickly, like you knew the call was being monitored."

Jones nodded, "Maybe we did know."

"Why don't you tell the truth for a change? She wanted you to come here so you could get rid of this gun."

"She did not!" Killian protested vehemently, "It was my own idea. She doesn't even know I'm here."

"It works fine, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Did you think it wouldn't?"

"I hoped it wouldn't," Gold told him.

"Well, am I under arrest?"

"No, but you're not to leave town again and it would be foolish of you to try it."

_Meanwhile back at the morgue_

"You've known Lieutenant Gold long?" Belle asked the pretty Medical Examiner who was working with some slides.

"About . . I guess it's four years now. I came on board when they had this case and they didn't know what had killed the person. The last M.E. wasn't the brightest bulb on the tree. Gold got me working on the case and, on a hunch, I just did a specific test for digoxin, it's a heart medicine that's lethal in large doses but doesn't show up with a usual tox screen. Gold called me 'The Savior' and that stuck, thank you." Emma rolled her eyes.

"He's pretty good at this job?"

"Oh Belle, he's the best. He worked Vice for many years, some deep, deep cover stuff, drug dealing, gun running, human trafficking, just smarmy. That's when people, the good guys and the bad guys, started calling him The Dark One. I don't know but I suspect all that deep cover work probably contributed to the demise of his marriage. He was always gone."

"He was married?" Belle asked. _She shouldn't be surprised that he'd been married. _

"Yeah, as I understand it, he married very young, like right outta high school. My purely personal theory is that he got her pregnant at the senior prom and did the honorable thing by marrying her."

"He has a child?" Belle asked. _Why would she be surprised at this?_

"Yes and no." Emma had stopped and looked up. "It's really sad. His wife left him for some douche-bag. He took over raising his son but there were some problems. And once, he didn't get back home in time and little eight year old Neil was left alone overnight. It ended up with Social Services investigating."

Emma sighed before she continued. "You know, Social Service folks are like cops. Most are fine, caring people who do a dangerous job that pays crap, but they do it to help people, help children. But just like there are a few bad cops . . . well, the worker investigating his case refused to understand what all Gold was dealing with, even with his supervisor's involvement. Neal was a good, healthy, self-sufficient kid who knew how to speed dial people if there was a problem, but . . . technically, Gold had left a child of nine on his own and . . . "

"Oh no," Belle guessed where this was going. "They took his child," she finished.

"Yeah," Emma confirmed. "I keep trying to convince myself that the social worker was just doing her job, but from everything I've heard, she was a smug, self-righteous bitch who took an instant dislike to Gold. I know he didn't like her at all, called her 'Mother Superior' behind her back, well, he probably called her that to her face – he's got a bit of temper. She didn't want to hear that his appearance, his hours, his associates, all of this had to do with his job. She basically treated him as if he actually _was_ a drug runner, a criminal. It didn't matter _why_ he was away from home for long hours. It all came down to the fact that he _was _away from home for long hours. Anyway, the ex-wife got custody and, no surprise here given the bad blood between the two, she set about making sure her son hated his father."

Belle listened to this story and her heart broke for the man. "Did he . . . has he reconciled with his son?"

Emma bit her lip. "Neal turned out all right but he certainly has some baggage. I've actually dated him a couple of times . . . well, more than a couple of times – we're kinda serious. But I can't get him to agree to meet with his father."

"How sad," Belle remarked and Emma nodded.

"Yeah, not something you get over. After his son was removed from his home, Gold pulled out of undercover and started working Homicide and a few years later developed the Special Crimes Unit. It gave him more regular hours but it wasn't enough for him to regain custody. Mother Superior had screwed him over in her report, I guess. What was bad for him turned out lucky for the department. He was a complete genius at solving difficult cases. A lot of times, other cops, desperate to solve their crimes, would bring their cases to him to get his help."

"So he is still with the Special Crimes Unit?" Belle asked.

"Sort of. He pretty much established that unit and was the heart and soul of it until he semi-retired."

"Semi-retired?" Belle wasn't sure how that worked.

"Yeah, after that incident when his knee was blown out, well, he began to lose his passion for the job and wanted out. The department didn't want to entirely lose him, so they offered him a special deal. He's still on the pay-roll but primarily works as a consultant. Other cops are still bringing their cases to him. He only personally works a handful of cases a year. Almost always high profile situations. Your 'death' is just the type of case he gets pulled for."

"No current girlfriends?" Belle tried to sound casual.

But Emma was too quick. "Oh dear. You _like _him, girl. I can tell. You've fallen under his spell." She smiled and shook her head, "Well, he can be charming when he wants to be. I know." She read another slide then sat back and slowly shared, "I don't feel this way anymore, partly because I'm dating the man's son and . . . eeuh, but when I first came to work here, I had just finished my residency working under this brilliant diagnostician. I had fancied myself in love with him and then, when I met Gold, well in so many ways, right down to them both needing a walking cane, I guess he reminded me of my diagnostician. I confess I had this big crush on the doctor and then developed this little crush on Gold. He was so mysterious and . . . deep, you know what I mean?"

"Like he's got these layers?" Belle asked her.

"Oh yeah. He could be sweet and helpful one moment and then just turn around and be plain nasty. I once asked him why he didn't have a girlfriend and he told me he was a difficult man to love or some such bullshit. Of course, part of me thought he probably did have a woman stashed somewhere, but he kept her locked up in spook manor, that dark dilapidated castle he lives in."

"I like his house," Belle told her.

Emma looked at her for a long moment. "You like him."

**Thanks so much to my reviewers (we are two-thirds of the way through this story, so not much longer to hold on): kagi-chan2, juju0268, cynicsquest, Wondermorena, OneMagician, fulltimefanxgirl, Erik'sTrueAngel, Grace5231973, Robin4, deweymay, onlyinyourdreams77, Chauchi, MyraValhallah, jewel415, and orthankg1**

_NEXT: Gold and Belle spend the night together at her apartment, Belle's friends are told she is alive and Belle and Jones collude _


	11. Truth

**A Walk in Ashes**

_Gold deposits Miss French with the talkative Medical Examiner and sets off to search her mountain cabin. He is there for only a short time when Killian Jones arrives and retrieves a gun that could very well be the murder weapon. Killian divulges that he took Lacey to Belle's apartment, that Lacey was having problems with her boyfriend and he and Belle were trying to help her. He was stunned by the murder and just left the apartment (rather than calling the police). Gold confiscates the gun and warns Killian not to leave town. _

_Meanwhile, Belle and Emma talk about Lieutenant Gold. Emma shares that he began as a deep undercover officer and his hours and the stress of the job contributed to his marriage breaking up and eventually to the loss of his son (through a Social Services investigation). Emma tells Belle that the man is a brilliant detective, but was personally deeply hurt by the loss of his son. Emma also confesses that she had a little crush on him but has since moved on and is now dating his son (who has refused overtures to reconcile). Emma points out that it is very evident that Belle is interested in the man. _

**Truth**

**Chapter 11**

It was late afternoon when Gold drove back by his house. He checked on the kitten, opening the door to the bathroom to be greeted by piles and shreds of toilet paper. The kitten was snuggled up in her blanket and raised her head to blink at him when he came in.

"Don't be looking all innocent," he knelt down to gentle scold the kitten. "You've been spending your time unraveling the paper off the spindle, haven't you?"

The kitten rubbed against his hand and purred. She did not seem the least bit remorseful.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're lonely. I'll be finishing with this case soon and see about giving you more company and more run of the house," he promised her.

The kitten mewed and he patted her again. "I'll buy you some cat toys and maybe build you one of those carpeted cat trees to climb on," he told her, assuaging his guilt for having to abandon the little thing. He fed her again and sat and petted her for a while. Then he picked up Miss French's clothes, delicate undies included, out of the dryer and stuffed them into her overnight bag, all of which he threw into the back area in his crew cab. He packed himself a bag in preparation to stay overnight and then went on to the police lab to drop off the gun for their forensic people to go over it. It was close to five by the time he made it back in to pick up Miss French.

He found Miss French and Emma sitting in the autopsy room, drinking Pepsis and eating Funyuns from the snack machine.

"Yo, I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to make it back here," Emma told him. "We were making supper plans. You almost got a sticky note on the lab door telling you where we were."

"Where'd you decide?" he asked the women.

"You know me," Emma told him. "You introduced me to the place. Grill 51 is always my first choice," naming one of Gold's favorite haunts. "What are your plans for Belle here? She can't keep hiding out in your house and I'm sure she'll tell you that while today's been fun, fun, fun, after one day in the coroner's office, not much else to see – well, that you'd want to see."

"Emma's been perfectly lovely, Lieutenant. But I do want to go back to my own place," Miss French said softly.

"Yeah, we can probably do that tonight. At this point, I'm not sure there's much to be gained by keeping your return a secret. I do want to wait until it gets dark though. How about I get Emma to pick us up a couple of burgers and we hunker down at her place until about ten or so?"

Emma shrugged, "Fine with me. I can put up with Belle 'til ten. Now, as for you. . . you're a pain in the ass but I guess I'll tough it out."

Gold and Miss French rode out to Emma's house which was on the north side of Asheville, nearer to Weaverville. They had to drive up one of the mountain roads, a windy affair and then into an older tract development and down a paved one-lane driveway to get to her place. They pulled in and waited for Emma who was swinging by the restaurant to get their food.

"I like Emma. She's got a terrific sense of humor but I guess that helps her do her job. I can't imagine cutting into bodies all day," Miss French told him.

"Swan's amazing," Gold admitted. "She's the best I've ever worked with. She wants to find out what happened to the person, what killed them, how they died. It's invaluable information she gives us before we go to court. She's bailed us out so many times, we started calling her the 'The Savior.'"

"She said you gave her that name," Miss French told him and watched him shrug.

"Maybe," he admitted.

"Well, she thinks you're pretty fine yourself," Miss French began. "But . . ."

"She also thinks I'm an arrogant jerk," he finished for her.

"Pretty much words along those lines," Miss French agreed. "She spoke very highly of your skills as a detective. She doesn't think that anybody else in the department comes close to you. She says you're like a magician when it comes to solving these difficult cases."

"Really?" Gold was feeling pretty good hearing this about himself.

"Of course, she also said that you can't get along with anybody. That quite a few people owe you favors so they avoid you like the plague. But any time people get stymied they all troop over in a procession to see you."

"Yeah, I'd have to agree with that. I'm not a particularly easy man to be around. I have a low tolerance for fools and a fundamental disrespect for authority," he told Miss French.

"But you're patient," Miss French told him.

"Is that what Emma told you?" he asked.

"No, I figured that out for myself," she said. "You handle all these difficult cases and you have to keep working to get the evidence, unravel things and then tie it all together. To do all that as well as you do it, you must be patient."

"Perhaps," he hadn't thought of himself in those terms, but considered what she'd said. He had waited for so much – convictions for some of the most clever criminals, appreciation from his co-workers and he was still waiting for some things – his son - and perhaps, maybe . . . there was still time for it to happen, a life partner he could love and trust.

They saw lights and realized that it was Emma catching up with them. She pulled her yellow Volkswagen into her garage and Miss French and Gold followed her into her house.

Emma glanced out at Gold's truck. "Jeez, you are driving this fine woman around in that fugly truck of yours?"

"I think it's a cute truck," Belle told her. "It looks like my sweet little car's kick-ass boyfriend."

"Yeah, with a lot of extra mileage and a beat up appearance," Emma snorted.

Miss French smiled looking at Gold while she spoke, "You mean it has experience and an air of distinctiveness?"

Gold had to smirk. He recognized that Miss French had just handed him a compliment. _Nice._

Emma rolled her eyes and made a gagging sound.

Her house was a small red commons brick affair with a black roof. The windows were trimmed with black shutters. They entered into Emma's kitchen.

It had old fashioned avocado green appliances with stainless steel accents in the sink and a microwave. Emma picked up the mail that was stacked up on her kitchen table and put it on a counter. There were already two chairs at the little dinette table. Emma disappeared into the darkened house to return with a fold-up metal chair which she added to the table. She pulled down paper plates and paper napkins all around. She took down three glasses, added ice from a freezer ice bin and pulled a liter of Pepsi off the shelf to pour them all drinks.

"Some more of my lab work should be in tomorrow. I'll give you a call if there's anything special on it," Emma promised Gold while chowing down on her burger.

"Thanks. I've got you on speed dial if anything else turns up or . . . if I have a question for you," Gold told her.

Belle thanked Emma for her hospitality and encouraged her to come by Prêt á Porter. "I'll see about getting you a discount. You'll have to ask for me. I'm usually upstairs working on designs," Belle told her.

"Sure. I'll pop by some time," Emma told her.

After their late supper and some informal chit chat at Emma's (carefully avoiding the taboo topic of Gold's son), Gold drove Miss French back to her apartment. It was dark. Gold handed her the hooded jacket she had worn during the day in Emma's refrigerated office. She put it on while still in the truck and turned to him. He pulled up the hood, pushing her hair inside the hood.

Their eyes met and there was a brief moment, a moment when his hand, pushing her hair back had rested on her cheek, a moment when it seemed like he might be caressing her instead of just helping her into a disguise. He held his hand still against her and she didn't pull back. Neither said anything, his brown eyes locking with her blue ones. It was a long moment. Slowly, Gold lowered his hand.

"Not much of a disguise, but better than nothing," he muttered to himself. He grabbed her weekend bag and his own small bag and then got her into the building and up the stairs to her apartment without meeting anyone.

"I'm sleeping out here," he told her, motioning towards the couch.

"Do you think that's necessary?" she asked him.

"Someone tried to kill you Miss French. That person is still on the loose. Yes, I think it's necessary."

"Are we sure they were trying to kill me?" Miss French asked him. "I mean, or were they trying to kill Lacey?"

"I'd wondered about that but I'm pretty sure they were coming after you. No one else knew that Lacey would be here. Unless you or Jones is guilty?"

"Oh," Miss French hadn't thought of that. "Well, all right then." She started back to her bedroom," Let me change into some of my own clothes out of these sweats. Do you need anything? I see you've brought your own bag."

"Yeah, I brought some shaving gear, a toothbrush and a change of clothes."

"How many days do you expect to be here?"

"I don't know. I've got to feed the kitten or get someone out to the house to do that some time tomorrow. We'll start letting people know tomorrow that you're alive. We might have some fireworks then."

Miss French nodded and went into her bedroom. When she came out, she had changed into some slinky black silk pajama pants and a matching silk running bra-top. The little outfit showed off her firm stomach and curvy figure. She watched him and saw that he had already dressed for bed. He had pulled on some black cotton sleep pants and kept on his tee-shirt from that day. He already had stubble from his beard showing up. He had put on some little brass-framed glasses and was reviewing his information in his little notebook.

"Wine or beer?" she called to him from the kitchen.

"Beer, if you have it." He looked back at his notebook, "I still can't find a motive for anyone to want to kill you," he told her glancing up. He looked back down but then, slowly, looked up again. "Damn, you're a beautiful woman, Miss French." Then, as if he realized what he had said this out loud, he apologized, "I'm sorry, that's an inappropriate thing for me to say." He cleared his throat and looked back down at his notebook.

Miss French came and sat next to him, sitting close enough that she was almost touching him. She handed him his beer.

"I'm not offended, Lieutenant Gold. I happen to think that you're a very attractive man," she had curled up on the sofa and took a sip of her wine.

"Well," he snapped his notebook shut. "That settles that. We get you an eye appointment tomorrow, first thing."

She laughed, a soft laugh. "You really are fine looking. That anyone would say that makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?"

"I've . . . uh . . . not had a happy history around women, Miss French. And I absolutely believe that you are out of my league."

"What league would you say I was in?" she asked curiously.

"You're the kind of woman who marries a man who can treat her like a princess, take care of her, buy her whatever she wants, make sure that she'll never have a day in her life when she lacks for anything."

Miss French took another sip of her wine and then set it on the table in front of her. "Do you know why I was going to marry Killian?" she asked him.

"I assumed you were in love," he answered. _He knew more, he had read it in her white leather journal._

"No." She leaned back and picked her wine glass back up. "I'm nearing thirty and I wasn't married. I had begun to think I just wasn't going to ever fall in love, that there just wasn't a special someone out there for me. I was about to settle on someone just because I didn't want to be alone."

"Those aren't good reasons to get married," he told her softly.

"No, they aren't. It took me a while but I finally realized that." She put her hand on his knee. "I don't want a man who will take care of me, buy me whatever I want and give me _things._ I want a man who will love me, with all his heart, be honest with me, and who will respect me."

"Do you think he's out there?" he asked her not shifting away from her hand on his knee.

"I had lost hope, but I think I'm beginning to get it back," she told him and finished her wine. She leaned forward to give him a gentle kiss on the cheek. "It's late. I'm going to bed. Thank you."

Gold missed her hand on his knee. It was super-heated where her palm had lain on him. He put one of his hands over the spot. And then he raised his other hand to his cheek. _She had kissed him. This perfect, perfectly beautiful, kind woman had kissed him. _

He had wanted to grab her shoulders and kiss her back, not gently but with all the feelings he had within him. He wanted to feel her kissing him back and hear the little whimpery sounds he thought she would make when passion started to bloom and he wanted to feel her melt under his touch and he wanted to feel her yield to him, to shake and shudder in his arms as she climaxed under his fingers or the force of his body as he drove into her.

_And he so needed to get a grip on himself. _

He finished his beer.

Then he turned off the lights and turned in.

It was not even midnight when he abruptly woke. Something was moving around in the room. Keeping still, he flickered one eye open. Whatever it was, was small. He watched and when the thing had its back to him, he dove from the sofa, taking it to the floor.

There was a yelp and squirming and thrashing before he subdued it.

"Miss French!" he was startled to realize who it was. He was lying on top of her.

"I'm sorry. I . . . I got scared," she managed to gasp out.

He slowly shifted his weight off of her and helped her sit up.

"I'm not usually a nervous person," her voice was a bit ragged and he helped her over to the sofa to sit. "But when I started thinking about it . . . what happened here. . . " she was breathing shallowly.

He reached for her and put his arms around her. She was trembling and in the minimal light streaming in from the street lamps he could tell she had been crying. "You wouldn't be normal if it didn't bother you, Miss French." He very nearly kissed her forehead.

"Will you call me Belle?" she asked him leaning into him.

"All right . . . Belle," he responded. _Dangerous ground_

She hesitated. "Would you do something for me?"

"If I can."

"I . . . would you . . . come back to my bedroom and stay with me?"

It was his turn to hesitate. _He knew she wasn't asking for sex. She just needed to be comforted, to have someone else close by._

_He'd seen this before. Someone breaks into an apartment. Someone kills someone in a house. Suddenly the place doesn't feel the same. It doesn't feel safe._

"Please?" she asked him, her eyes wide.

He could do it. It would hurt, but he could do it.

Gold insisted he lay on the outside of the covers while Miss French, eh, Belle lay under the covers. He initially felt rather awkward but allowed her to snuggle next to him, spooning with her luscious backside connecting to his groin. He lay awake _uncomfortably _next to her for a while, but eventually drifted off.

When he woke, he was on his side and she had turned onto her back and had her face lolled to one side and buried in his chest. His hand was resting comfortably on one of her full breasts. His thumb was automatically brushing against the hardened nipple, tracing little circles around it. When he realized what he was doing he momentarily froze but then carefully lifted his hand up. She whimpered and shifted her body, lifting her chest to him as if . . . as if she was welcoming his caress.

He checked the time. Six. Soon enough.

He vaulted up and grabbed a shower, a cold shower. He redressed, this time forgoing his usual three-piece suit, supplanting them with dark jeans and a fresh black tee-shirt. He wore his gun in a shoulder holster to have it at the ready.

Belle missed him soon after he had gotten up, the absence of his warm body and delicious spicy smell waking her. She'd been having a very pleasant dream – a very gentle man had been caressing her. She wondered if it had all been a dream.

She arose soon after he got out of the shower and came out dressed in a short, bright blue full skirt with a form fitting white top. She'd put on some high wedges with blue and white striped ties.

Gold swallowed hard when he saw her. _She really had nice legs - and he couldn't stop the spark of wayward imagination when he pictured them wrapped around his hips as he . . . No. He needed to stop that. _

"Now, I always thought a man with barbeque equipment or a chainsaw could be macho sexy. Had never considered how testosterone driven a man with a shoulder holster could be. You look nice," she told him. "Different look for you, but I like it."

"You look . . . beautiful," he couldn't stop himself.

"Aren't you the sweetest? When can I start calling my friends?" she asked him.

"Are they up at this hour?" he glanced at his watch, almost eight o'clock.

Belle shook her head, "Probably not."

It was then they heard someone turning a key in the lock. Gold pushed Belle behind him and unbuttoned his holster to get his gun. A familiar figure came through the door. It was Ms. Potts.

Ms. Potts came in, going to the hall closet to put her things in. She turned and . . . screamed, nearly dropping to her knees.

Belle was on her in a minute, sharing comforting words, "It's all right, Bessie. It's all right, Bessie."

"You're alive!" Ms. Potts managed to gasp out.

"It's all been a terrible mistake, Bessie," Belle explained. "I'm not a ghost. I'm really here and really alive."

"But I found you! You were dead!" Ms. Potts protested.

"It was Lacey Redfern's body you found," explained Gold.

"Why don't you fix us some eggs and coffee. You know no one can make eggs as well as you," Belle was still talking softly to the distraught housekeeper.

"But I . . . I . . . saw you with my own eyes. I don't understand."

"Ms. Potts you ever heard a ghost ask for eggs and coffee?" Belle asked her.

"No ma'am," Ms. Potts was wiping the tears away.

"You'll be all right, Bessie." Belle and Gold watched the woman amble off to the kitchen. "Somebody should have warned her. Poor dear," and Belle glowered at him.

Gold watched the housekeeper as she disappeared into the kitchen. "You may as well know, I've asked Regina Mills to come here this morning."

"Did you tell her?" Belle asked.

"No," Gold answered.

"But why not? Surprising these people with my being alive is brutal," Belle protested.

"I'm not doing it for fun," Gold explained. He sat down in the dining area and scrutinized Belle. "Why did you break your word and make a phone call to Killian Jones that first night?

"I didn't give you my word. I said I understood. Know this about me, I never have been and I never will be bound by anything . . . . I do or don't do things of my own free will. I decide my fate." Belle was defiant.

Gold nearly smiled. He continued, "Did you think Lacey Redfern was in love with your Mr. Jones? You'd met with her and talked with her. What did she tell you?"

"I've already told you that I knew he wasn't in love with her. . . and she wasn't in love with him. They were old friends."

Gold was about to respond when his cell phone rang. It was Emma.

"Yeah? . . . No, I didn't check that page . . . What do you mean, you figured? . . . really? . . . I mean are you absolutely sure? . . . . No, I don't mean to impugn your skills, Swan. Just wanted to be absolutely sure. . . Thanks."

He hung up and pulled out his notebook to write something in it.

There was a knock at the door. Gold turned to Belle, "Just sit still here. And don't give me any of that deciding your own fate crap," he steered her onto one of the dining room chairs, out of the immediate line of sight from the front door.

Gold answered the door. It was Killian Jones.

"Hello Lieutenant," Jones greeted him cheerily but, looking around Belle's apartment, soon spotted her. He went over to her and kissed her on her cheek. "Morning, my darling."

Belle smiled up at him, "Hello, dear." She pulled him back down for a second kiss, this one on the lips.

"Ah, my dear, thank you," Jones told her.

"Oh, jeez, is it on again?" Gold asked. _Swan must have relaxed her vigilance and allowed Belle to get to a phone. She and Jones must have hatched something._

"Do I need to get a permit from the police department to kiss my fiancée good morning?" Jones asked him.

"Fiancée?" Gold swung on Belle, "Let me get this straight. So now you _are_ planning on marrying him? What did he say to make you change your mind?" Gold was quickly reaching some conclusions. _They must have connected at some point yesterday and hatched a scheme. He was going to kick Swan's perky little ass for allowing Belle to get to a phone. _

_Who was protecting whom? Were they both in it together?_

Jones availed himself of the opportunity," Speaking of changing one's mind, Mr. Gold, I have just come from my lawyer."

Gold grimaced, "Is that right? Did you see Cora? Did she tell you how much time you'll get off for good behavior?"

"No," Jones began, "but she told me that anything I may have said yesterday afternoon was said under duress and without having had my rights read to me. It can't be used against me. Besides," he added, "none of it was true."

Gold didn't drop it, "Smart lawyer you've got. Maybe she told you how that whiskey got up here Friday night after you'd bought it at Leroy's. Maybe it was the lawyer who brought Lacey Redfern up here. Maybe . . ." there was a knock on the door and it opened.

Regina entered, "Well, Gold, have you thought over the deal I suggested?" She saw Belle and her body sagged against the wall.

"Ms. Mills?!" Gold was at her side, his weak leg prohibiting him from picking her up. Killian came to his rescue and helped hold Regina up. Belle came over also.

"We better take her into the bedroom," she said.

"What?" Regina managed to gasp out, reaching out to touch Belle.

"Don't try to say anything, dear," Belle comforted her. "Just be quiet." Belle helped her to lie on the bed. When she left the room she turned on Gold, "I think this is carrying things too far! Your methods are vicious! There ought to be a law against it!"

Gold shrugged, "How is she feeling now?

"It's been a terrible shock. Poor darling." Belle was shaking her head.

"Don't tell me you're in love with her too?" Gold had to ask.

Killian intervened, "Look here, fella. You're not to talk that way to Miss French."

"Oh shut up!" Gold glared at him and then looked back at Belle, "Why do you cover up for a guy like him?"

"Don't answer him, Belle," Killian spoke up.

"What story did he tell you yesterday?" Gold was close to cornering Belle, his anger coming off of him in waves.

"Don't answer him. Let him talk to our lawyer," Killian advised her.

"Our lawyer?" Gold repeated the phrase. "So now you're covering up for each other?"

Killian felt he had the advantage, "Look at him, Belle. He's beginning to crack up. He'd use anything to make an arrest just so he can be a big shot in the headlines."

Gold was angry, "I've got enough on you to arrest you right now."

**Thanks so much to my faithful (and a few new ones) reviewers: kagi-chan2. Guest (smile), jewel415, cynicsquest, Wondermorena, Grace5231973, juju0268, Robin4 , MyraValhallah, deweymay, Aletta-Feather (chapters 9 &amp; 10),), OneMagician, onlyinyourdreams77, Erik'sTrueAngel, The Prince's Phoenix , orthankg1, and Chauchi**

**Special thanks to RaFire who just started reading the story and reviewed each and every chapter, 1 through 10 (whew).**

**And thanks to cynicsquest for reminding me that kittens will play with toilet paper spindles.**

_NEXT: Belle's friends gather to welcome her back_

_Gold makes a move_

_Belle lets him_


	12. Confession

**A Walk in Ashes**

_Late in the evening, Gold reluctantly returns Belle to her own apartment. He is astonished when she shares that she thinks he is 'very attractive' and gives him a chaste kiss before retiring to her bedroom. He is again surprised that night when she seeks him out, terrified to be alone in her own apartment – the weight of the murder having taken root in her mind and grown into harrowing maturity. At her tearful request, he spends a stressful night sharing her bed (but not her body). _

_The next morning Ms. Potts arrives and is taken aback by Belle's presence. Belle reassures her and encourages her to pursue a routine activity - making breakfast. Killian Jones then arrives, treating Belle as his fiancée (much to Gold's consternation who is wondering just what is going on between the two). Jones recants all his previous statements regarding the evening of Lacey's murder. Regina arrives and faints with the realization that Belle is still alive. Jones taunts Gold who threatens him with arrest. _

**Confession**

**Chapter 12**

Gold was angry as he spoke to Jones, "I've got enough on you to arrest you right now."

As the two men postured, a re-composed Regina emerged from the bedroom, the noise of the argument easily having reached her, "Quick, Gold, get the handcuffs. Trundle him off to the hoosegow."

Killian turned on Regina, "You keep out of this."

"You'll look nice in handcuffs," Regina was back to form.

"Why don't you get down on all fours again, Regina? It's the only time you've ever kept your mouth shut," Killian advised her.

Regina ignored him and turned to Belle. "I hope you'll forgive my wee touch of a falling spell, my dear. Attacks of the vapors are an old family custom," Regina had joined them in the hallway while she apologized to Belle. Then she turned back to Gold, "Well, Gold, what does Belle's resurrection do for you?"

"You know, Ms. Mills, you could make me change my mind about Killian," Gold muttered.

Regina turned back to Belle, "Well, in any case, we'll have time for a little get-together. You'd better call Leroy and get some liquor sent up here and maybe Ms. Wolfe can send up some food on the fly. You've given her enough business that I'm sure she'll have a spare tray of something or another she can supply. Can't expect Ms. Potts to take care of everything," Regina told her.

"What do you mean 'a little get together'?" Belle asked.

"People will be descending on you to celebrate your return - Cora, David, Jefferson, those models, some of your favorite clients."

Belle was puzzled, "But . . . who, who asked them to come?"

Regina waved her cell phone, "I did, when I was back in the bedroom. I phoned Graham, and he's calling everyone."

"Why did you do that, Regina?" Belle asked.

"A sense of the fitness of things, my dear. Perhaps our friend can weave all the loose ends together into a noose. How about it, Gold?" Regina gave him a wink.

# # # # #

There was a throng of people in Belle's apartment. They had started coming over early in the morning and had stayed until well into the afternoon, eating, drinking and generally celebrating. Gold had sat in one of the corner chairs glowering at everyone. He was pissed, he was furious, he was livid and it showed. _What the hell had possessed Regina to bring in all these people? _

No one dared approach him.

Killian approached Belle putting his arms around her. She had been scurrying around, getting hugs, talking with everyone, making sure everyone had food and drink. _Thankfully both Leroy and Ms. Wolfe had come through with drink and food - enough for everyone. _"You're working yourself to death, darling. I haven't had a moment alone with you all day."

"It's a very thirsty crowd," Belle explained, detaching herself. She gave him a wan smile and re-entered the throng.

"Well darling. This party was a brilliant idea. It's not like we're celebrating someone else's death." Cora had come up and put her hand on Jones's arm.

Killian stepped aside, "Aren't you being a little bit nasty, Cora?"

"I feel nasty when I don't get to see you."

"Well, you look lovely, as always. That's a completely wonderful outfit you've got on, darling. One of Belle's designs I believe. Now, if you'll forgive me, I want to get Belle one of those new cocktails that Jefferson is mixing up," Killian spoke in a low voice to Cora.

"I'd like one too," Cora said petulantly.

"Well, here you go," Killian picked off a random drink from a tray that Ms. Potts was carrying through the crowd.

"Killian, why don't you come to your senses? You know it's all over between you and Belle, or it soon will be. But you haven't lost me. Why don't we get married now?" Gold could overhear the whispered remarks Cora was making to Jones.

"Cora, dear, you don't seem to realize the situation," Killian tried to explain.

"Oh, but yes I do," Cora protested. "That's why you need me. We'll get the best criminal lawyer that money can buy. I recommend Sarah Fisher – she's a stone-cold bitch, but she's great. When it's all over, we'll go away- anywhere you want- and forget about all this."

"Thanks, Cora, but you see, Belle still needs me. Sorry," and Killian turn to meld back out into the crowd.

He honed in on the group crowded around Belle, "If you don't mind, I'd like a word with my fiancee," he announced, putting his arms around her and pulling her away from the larger group off to a corner, a corner away from Gold but still in his view and, if the man happened to have good hearing, within eavesdropping range.

"Darling, I'm so sorry I wasn't able to handle things out at the cabin yesterday," Jones told her.

"Killian," Belle began, "tell me, why did you go to. . ." she looked around and lowered her voice. "Why did you go to the cabin yesterday?"

"Belle, don't you know? I was afraid that you wouldn't think of getting rid of that shotgun," Killian answered, also keeping his voice low.

Belle was clearly puzzled, "What shotgun?" she asked.

"The one I gave you. You don't have to lie to me, darling. I'll stand by you," Killian promised her.

Cora was nothing if not persistent. She had followed Killian and had come up to the duo, "Belle, what's wrong?" she asked.

"Darling," Belle gave Killian one of her blinding smiles. "Please get me one of Jefferson's new drink concoctions . . . what is he calling it? Death in the Afternoon - absinthe and champagne. I've been wanting to try one." Killian immediately left her to get drink and Belle turned back to Cora. "I guess I'm just anxious. That's all."

"Well, darling, so am I," Cora told her.

"Gold suspects Killian," Belle began. "And he seems to suspect me too. And so do some of my friends."

Cora shook her head in disbelief, "You? Don't be absurd. You could never do anything like that. Now Killian?"

"Oh, I don't think he did it," Belle assured her.

"But he's capable of it," Cora insisted. "Now tell me, dear, are you as interested in Lieutenant Gold as he is in you?"

"What?! Cora, I just met the man two nights ago."

"That's more than long enough sometimes," Cora told her. "Any way, he's better for you than Killian. Anybody is. Killian's better for me."

Belle smiled, "Why is that?"

"Because I can afford him and I understand him. He's no good, but he's what I want. I'm not a nice person, Belle. Neither is he. He knows I know he's a . . . just what he is. He also knows that I don't care. We belong together because we're both weak and can't seem to help ourselves. That's why I know he's capable of murder. He's like me."

Killian had come up carrying Belle's drink and had heard the last part. "Well, I didn't kill Lacey, no reason to." He had wrapped his arms around Belle and was snuggling along her neck.

Gold had watched this exchange without commenting on it. He felt his side buzzing and looked down. _The mayor's office. No doubt, checking on his progress. _ He answered his phone. "Yeah, I know. . . . Don't worry . . . I told you, I'm on top of things." As he spoke the room became quiet and all eyes turned to him. "Yeah, well, I was just gonna make my move when you called." Gold looked around at his audience. "No, I can't tell you now. I'm not alone. You'll see soon enough. . . Right. I'll keep you in the loop." He clicked off his phone. The room had become quiet.

Gold closed his eyes and got up. He walked over to Belle, "All right, Miss French. Let's go."

Belle closed her eyes for a moment. "You mean . . . ?"

"Yeah," he answered her quietly.

Ms. Potts heard the exchange, "No, no, no! Not Miss French! Please, no!"

Belle turned to her housekeeper, "Thank you Bessie, Thank you. Now, will you please be good enough to go and get my pocketbook and phone?"

Ms. Potts was crying, "Yes, Miss . . . "

Cora was there, "I'm coming with you as your attorney. Let him accuse you."

Regina spoke up, "We'll fight them. I have every weapon - money, connections, prestige . . . and my blog and podcasts. Every day, millions will read about you and rally to your defense."

Gold turned on Regina, "You talk as if you wanted to see her tried for murder."

Regina agreed, "Yes, rather than let you blacken her name with suspicions and rumors. Try to prove her guilty. Get on the witness stand with your poor shreds of evidence. I'll expose the cheap methods you used on her," Regina was still ranting when Ms. Potts came out of the bedroom with Belle's purse.

"Thank you Bessie," Belle said, quietly taking it from Ms. Potts.

"Belle, I'm telling you to watch out for this fellow," Killian began glaring at Gold.

Belle turned to Gold, "Shall we go now?"

"I warning you, Belle. He's dangerous," Killian continued.

Gold turned on Killian, "It's too bad you didn't open that door Friday night, Jones," he said as a parting shot.

"Belle, I'll meet you at the station. Don't say anything without me being there," Cora called after her and then turned, "Killian, I'll need you to drive me down to the station."

# # # # #

"Miss French."

"So we're back to Miss French now?" she asked him.

He had taken her to the police station but they hadn't gone in the front. He had taken her around the back and into a small building, unlit and empty except for a couple of offices. He'd turned on the lights and conducted her into one of the offices.

He gave her a tight smile, "Please, sit down." Gold directed her to a wooden chair sitting in front of a table. He took the chair across from her. There was a large mirror on one side which Belle assumed was a two-way mirror. Gold sat down across from her.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Well, why have you brought me here?" she asked him.

Gold looked at her, got up and walked away. "I know I don't have the right to do what I just did."

"What did you just do?" she asked him.

"Took you away from that pack of prowling sycophants." He turned back to her. "I thought if I had to see Jones slobber on you or put his hand on your . . . girls one more time, I'd take his hand off with a dull spoon. I know . . . I know I don't . . . I shouldn't . . . "

"This was jealousy?!" Belle asked him, rising. "You're jealous of Killian?!"

He had turned his back to her, "Belle, I'm not a young man. I know myself, I understand myself. What I'm feeling is not infatuation, or a fleeting fancy or even lust. It's deep and it's real." He turned back to her. "When I first started on your case, I thought you were the most special, most beautiful, most desirable woman I'd ever encountered. Did you know that when Cora and Regina started talking about dispersing your possessions, I put in a bid for your painting?" He paused. "Somehow I thought if that painting was waiting for me when I got home, it would make me feel . . . almost . . . almost . . . as if . . . as if you were waiting for me. It would make things worth it, make me feel . . . less lonely. And then I met you, the real you and you were everything. . . and more."

Belle had sat back down. There was a long quiet moment. "Do you believe in love at first sight?" she asked him.

"I don't know . . . . If you had asked me that a week ago, I would have said no, absolutely not, but now . . . I don't know," he answered honestly.

"I have feelings for you," she began slowly. "I don't exactly know what they are, but I've never felt for someone like I feel for you."

"What do you want to do?" he asked her. _He knew what he wanted to do – sweep her away to some isolated location – that little cabin might do. He wanted to strip off her clothes and make slow, passionate love to her._

"I'm still a murder suspect, aren't I?" she asked.

"Yes," he nearly winced.

"I'm sure in Policeman 101 you are told to never fall in love with a suspect," she told him.

"Yeah, we had a whole chapter on that, couple of lectures, a big test and everything," he responded.

"So we really, really shouldn't proceed with this relationship until I'm cleared and you've wrapped up the case."

He gave her a small smile. "All right then. At this moment, I actually do have some follow-up questions for you."

"Go ahead."

"Why did you say your television wasn't working at your cabin?"

"Because it wasn't working."

"Not when I tried it," he told her.

Belle sat a moment. "I called the dish people on a local phone at a gas station when I had gone out for my hike to Little Bradley. They must have come by after I left and . . . before you got there . . . and got it working again.

Gold took a deep breath. "You're too intelligent to make up something I could check on so easily . . . but you're intelligent enough to have broken it yourself to strengthen your story." He shifted in his seat _this next question was hard for him_, "The main thing I want to know is why you pulled that switch on me about Jones. You told me that first night that you had decided not to marry him."

"Yes, I guess I did," she admitted.

"But today it was on again. Why?"

"Well, I . . . I changed my mind," she stammered out. He lost eye contact with her.

"What are you trying to hide? Don't you realize you're both involved in a murder?" He raised his voice. "You've got yourself in a jam it's not going to be easy to get out of . . . unless you're on the level with me," he pleaded with her. "This is no time for secrets. Now, did you really decide to call it off or did you just tell me that because you thought I wanted to hear it?" Gold sat back in his seat. "Or did he persuade you to make up? And did you agree or did you agree to pretend you had? Was that it?"

Belle bit her lip, "Well . . . he . . . that is, both of us thought . . ." There were tears pooling in her eyes.

Gold interrupted, "He convinced you that if you broke the engagement now, people would think that you believed he was guilty."

Belle brought her hand up to her eyes, "Yes, but now I know it was only because he thought I was guilty and he was trying to protect me."

"Do you believe he's guilty?" Gold asked her.

"No," Belle quickly spoke up. "No, I'm sure he isn't. But he's gotten himself into an awfully suspicious position and he is the sort of man that people are always ready to believe the worst about."

"Are you in love with him?" Gold had to ask.

Belle locked eyes with him. "I don't see how I ever could have been."

Gold sat back and took several deep breaths.

"Did you know that Lacey was pregnant?" he asked her.

"What . . . ? How did . . . ?" Belle paused and thought it through. "Emma . . . ! Emma found out, of course she would find out." Belle rubbed her forehead. "Yes, I knew. Lacey had just found out. She had gone to Jones for help."

"Why did she go to Jones? Was he the father?" Gold pushed.

"No, of course not. They were old friends. She didn't have anyone else she thought she could trust. He gave her his watch, an expensive watch I had given him. I didn't know why at first but I found out that it was supposed to pay for an abortion. But Lacey began to have second thoughts. She didn't think it was the right thing to do. Killian got her to talk with me and she told me everything."

"You were going to help her?" he asked. _Was that why she'd made those calls to that Atlantan attorney?_

"Of course I was. Lacey hadn't always made the best decisions but she was trying to do better. The baby had made her rethink her life. I got her connected with an attorney in Atlanta. She had been one of my clients and I knew she could arrange for Lacey to go through with an adoption, one of those that the mother-to-be and the couple come together and the couple pays the pregnant woman's expenses and then she lets them have the baby. I can give you the attorney's name. She'll back me up that we've been in contact," she told him.

Gold sat quietly a moment across from Belle. "Tell me you didn't kill Lacey," he told her.

She looked him in the eye, "I didn't kill Lacey."

"I believe you," he told her. He wanted to take her into his arms. "I haven't wanted to believe that it could have been you, but from an outsider's perspective it looks like you got rid of a rival. You appear to have motive, opportunity, no alibi and, now, access to the type of weapon that did the job. I had to get rid of any lingering doubts I had."

"You know you have greatly alarmed my friends. You know they all think you've arrested me." Belle nailed him with her hard, bright blue eyes. "I'm upset about how you handled this."

He shrugged, "Well, sorry, but I actually only like a couple of your friends," he told her and held out his hand to her to rise from the chair. Belle took his hand but was still glaring at him.

"You can't be pushing people around like this, like they were puppets, pieces on a chessboard for you to move around." Belle stood up and began to lecture him. "You can't be manipulating people," she advanced on him, backing him up against the wall. "It isn't right. I'm scared enough about all this, I don't need you adding to it. You made everyone think you were arresting me! I thought you were arresting me, but then you bring me down here to tell me you're falling in love with me!" He was standing with his back to the wall. Belle was standing in front of him blistering in her anger. "I have all these powerful, strong feelings about you but sometimes. . . . you're infuriating! I had been thinking that you were an intelligent, reasonable man, but now I'm thinking that you're little better than a beast, a monster that takes advantage of people in desperate situations."

"Belle, I was doing my job . . . " he began lamely.

"Screw your job!" she told him.

They stood looking at each other for a moment, Belle furious, Gold not the least bit penitent. They were standing as close to each other as possible without touching the other. It was a long moment and the tension between them was sizzling.

"You care about me," he said quietly. "You're falling in love with me." And abruptly he reached for her and she allowed him to pull her into his arms and then they were kissing and it was wonderful. Belle's hands went around his shoulders and she knew that she was kissing him back. He had pried her mouth open _nothing gentle, nothing tender here. _ He turned her so that she was against the wall and he was pressing himself into her, his body hard against hers, exuding heat and comfort, power and control. His lips had left hers and were now traveling down her neck, leaving a line of super-heated, super-stimulated flesh. Belle shivered against the onslaught. His hands had made their way around her waist and she was thoroughly pressed against the wall. She leaned forward, kissing him along the shoulder, having to stop herself from biting him, most of the time stopping herself from biting him. A small whimper escaped her. That seemed to spur him on. His hands left her waist and were now holding her by her arms, holding her wrists above her head up against the wall. She might have been struggling, not to escape his grasp but to reach out and hold him, touch him. Then he was kissing her again, his tongue tracing a slick path along the tender insides of her lips. He was tasting her, savoring her.

It seemed to go on forever, in the darkened room, just the two of them, gasping for breath between deep kisses.

And now there was a thudding series of knocks on the door.

"Lieutenant Gold! Sir, are you in there?"

Gold pulled away just slightly, breathing heavily, his hands still holding her wrists in place. He and Belle went absolutely still.

"Gold! I know you're in there. Your truck's out back."

"Yeah!" Gold finally answered, not releasing Belle. "I'm busy Sergeant Heller. What is it?"

"There an aggressive red-headed woman at the front desk. She's demanding to see you."

Gold took a deep breath and gave Belle a quick kiss on the lips. "Tell her that Miss French called me a cocksucker and didn't give an inch. I'm not going to be able to arrest her," he called out.

Belle took the opportunity to kiss the man in the hollow of his throat, her lips lingering against his skin, breathing him in, flicking her tongue out to brush against his skin, then moving slightly and kissing him again . . . and again.

"She's demanding to see you," the Sergeant persisted.

Gold had closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of Belle's slow, wet kisses.

"Sir?" Heller called out to him again.

"Let her know that I'm releasing Miss French and I'll be taking her back home."

"Take me to your house," whispered Belle.

Gold flinched. "Let her know that I'll be releasing Miss French," he amended.

They stood still and the footsteps of the Sergeant faded away.

It was Belle who pulled away next, pulling her wrists away as he eased up his grasp. "I'm sorry." She was panting. "I'm supposed to be an engaged woman," she apologized.

"But you're not," he told her and pulled her back to himself. "Engaged or sorry," he told her. "You taste as good as you smell, you know that," he murmured and began kissing her again, this time sweetly and tenderly. His eyes had darkened and she knew he was holding himself back, trying not to overwhelm her, trying not to hurt her.

"Are you sure you want to go to my house?" he asked softly.

She nodded, "Spending the night in my apartment last night turned out to be . . . unsettling." Her eyes were large, nearly luminous.

"Of course. I haven't changed the sheets yet, so you're set up." He led her out of his office and back to his truck. He helped her up into the vehicle. "You're very welcome to spend what's left of the day . . . and the night, Miss French. No strings. No expectations," he assured her.

"Listen, you've just had your tongue down my throat. Please go back to calling me Belle," she told him.

He gave her a noncommittal grunt.

As they rode in silence, Belle would look over at the man. In the shadows, lit from behind by the late afternoon sunlight, she could see the man in profile – something raptor-like about him. He was a dark figure, cold, hard, driven. And he stirred her blood like no one else she had ever met.

He had forced kisses on her, no, no, be fair, he had not forced her. She had welcomed his kisses . . . good god, had she welcomed his kisses. They had heated her up, caused her toes to curl and her stomach to lurch and something deep inside had begun to coil. She had wanted to wrap her legs around him.

As they drove up to his house, she could see the magnificent structure in slanted late afternoon light.

"Your house takes my breath away," she told him.

"I have pictures of when I bought it," he told her. "It does look a bit better now."

"I'd like to see them," she told him.

"Sure," _whatever she wanted. _He pulled into his garage. They made it into his house. She turned to him, "Lieutenant Gold," she began. "I don't know your first name."

"It's complicated. Most people just call me Gold. You can call me Rumple." At her questioning look, he added, "My parents were hippies."

"Rumple?" she rolled it off her tongue. _There's more story here. _

"Miss French . . . Belle," he answered.

She hadn't moved, standing still in his ordinary kitchen. He stood near her, sensing she wanted to say something, do something. She reached out and pulled him to her, putting her arms around him. "You care about me. You're falling in love with me," she told him. He hesitated a moment, she could tell he was hesitating . . . but then . . . he bent himself to the kiss.

**Thanks so much to all my ever faithful reviewers: OneMagician, Grace5231973, onlyinyourdreams77, orthankg1, juju0268, Wondermorena, RaFire, Tinuviel Undomiel, kagi-chan2, Guest (hates Killian more), cynicsquest, Robin4, deweymay, MyraValhallah, and Erik'sTrueAngel**

_NEXT:_ _Gold and Belle share a passionate moment_

_Belle defends Gold _

_Gold develops a theory_


	13. More Information

**A Walk in Ashes**

_Aghast, Gold finds himself in Belle's apartment surrounded by a throng of her well-meaning friends, celebrating her return to life. Included in the crowd is Belle's ever-fawning, overly-solicitous 'fiancé,' Killian Jones. Gold overhears several interesting conversations, including finding out that Belle had forgotten about the shotgun that was in her cabin and hearing Cora openly hit on Jones. In front of the crowd, he appears to arrest Belle but, once in his office, he confesses that he's falling in love with her. Belle confesses her own feelings but also lambasts the man for his high-handed methods which have frightened her and her friends. In a moment of high emotion, they end up in a clinch, kissing passionately. They are interrupted by the announcement that Cora, an attorney, has arrived. Gold brushes her off and, at Belle's request, has taken her to his home. _

**More Information**

**Chapter 13**

**A.N. There's smutch in the opening.**

She pulled him to her and put her arms around him. He hesitated a moment, she could tell he was hesitating . . . but then . . . he bent himself to the kiss.

And it was hot, searing hot, she felt like there must be steam rising from their skin. Her lips left his for a moment to gasp for breath. Then she kissed down his neck into the hollow of his throat.

"Miss French, I mean, Belle" he tried to begin again.

She kissed him on the mouth again.

"I want to touch you Belle," he told her, his voice husky, his eyes fully dilated.

Belle was momentarily confused. She thought he _was_ touching her.

"Please, please let me," he was asking her again and now he was kissing her softly between his words.

She nodded, not quite sure what he was talking about.

It was all the encouragement he needed. He guided her the few steps over to the sofa and sat down, pulling her on top of him, down to his lap and his hand went to her knee as he began to kiss her again. She felt his hand slip under her skirt and slowly move up her thigh. She suddenly realized what he'd meant when he had asked to touch her.

Ohhh, he wanted to _touch_ her.

Belle pulled back and dropped her eyes. "I don't know that this is a good idea," she began. _This type of thing had never worked out well for her._

"Just relax. You don't have to do anything," he told her.

She fluttered and shifted as if she wanted to pull away from him. He held her, stroking her, petting her. "What's wrong?" he asked her _knowing from reading her innermost thoughts that had been poured into her journal that she was a woman that had never been satisfied . . . and likely that she thought the problem was within her. _

"I. . .I . . . don't want to disappoint you," she stumbled out, telling him, glancing up into his eyes. "I'm not very good at this."

There was that vaguest trace of a smirk. "Are you anatomically different from other females?" he asked her using his policeman voice.

She shook her head. _No._

"Are you . . .are you attracted to me?" he asked her now with a softer, gentler voice.

She hesitated and then nodded. "I know you must think I'm a tramp or using you to beat a murder rap, but I don't usually fall into the arms of a man I've known. . . what? about three days. But I . . . I feel . . . I . . ."

"I feel it too, Belle," he told her. He shifted her so that her back was to his stomach and her legs fell on either side of his. He held her in place with one arm snuggly set around her waist. The other hand slipped between her legs¸ resting against the soft cotton of her panties. From this position he was able to kiss her down her neck, causing little shivers.

"Remember, sweet girl, I'm a patient man, a very patient man." There was such sensual promise in his voice that she felt herself melting into him.

She protested one more time, "Lieutenant, I . . . I . . . "

"It's Rumple," he told her.

"Wha?!"

"My name. It's Rumple," he reminded her. "Just relax. I'm going to take care of you, very good care of you," he promised and his lips grazed her neck causing her to tremble.

And he took his time, his fingers strong and sure, at first just gently rubbing back and forth, around and around her most delicate areas. She had wrapped the fingers of each hand around his arms, holding on as he teased and stroked. He could feel her tensing up, especially as he brushed against a particularly tender spot. When she flinched, he slowed up. He held her, nearly rocking her as he became increasingly insistent, increasingly persistent. His fingers would work in tiny circular motions, not quite touching that most sensitive spot. From time to time he would kiss her along her neck and he'd be rewarded with tiny little moans. Her breathing was shallow. Her mouth was opened. Her eyes were closed. Her panties were soaked through. He felt she was getting quite close so he upped the stimulation. His hand that had been around her waist crept up to clasp a breast, at the same time that the fingers on his other hand became more determined, brushing, teasing, molding against her, sliding into her folds, gently rubbing and increasing pressure. He could feel her body responding, her clit becoming stiff and engorged. And now he concentrated on directly rubbing her feminine nub. She began to thrash, tiny frantic movements as if, as if to get away from his questing fingers and then . . .

He felt her body stiffen and still and then begin to tremble and then, with a sharp cry, she broke against him, her body jerking as the force of her pleasure tore through her, his fingers being flooded with a sweet wet flowering. Her fingers had dug into his arms, likely her nails had drawn blood.

It took a while for her breathing to return to normal. She slowly released her grip on him. He held her closely, pulling her leg around so that she rested in his lap, her body now soft and languorous.

"That was beautiful, my sweet. So beautiful," he whispered holding her, cuddling her.

It took a while before she was able to speak. She slowly became aware of where she was and who she was with. She managed to raise her eyes to his. "Do you want to come to the bedroom?" he heard her, inviting him into her bed with a soft whisper.

"I do, I really do, but it will have to be another night," Gold told her. "I'm still on the case and strictly speaking, you're still a suspect." He kissed her tenderly. "Another night . . . if I'm still welcome." And he helped her to stand, and she needed help to stand, her legs still weakened and wobbly.

"Why don't we get supper somewhere?" he asked her. "I doubt my kitchen holds enough ingredients for even someone of your talents to concoct a meal."

"Okay," she replied numbly. "Order in or go out?"

"Something out. Waffle House? There's one nearby on Long Shoals Road."

"Okay." She seemed kind of dazed.

"Are you all right?"

She looked up at him and shyly smiled. "Never better."

He closed his eyes. He was struggling to restrain his physical response and answers like that didn't help. "Let me feed Dearie before we go. I'll be right with you."

He took a moment to feed the kitten and then guided Belle out to his truck. He resisted putting his hands on her, afraid it would precipitate another burst of passion. _He had promised her no strings attached, no expectations. _

Belle found herself unusually hungry and ordered two eggs, bacon, toast and hash browns scattered, smothered, capped and covered. Oh yes, and a bowl of grits and some coffee. Gold got a single fried egg, some toast and some hot tea.

"Is that all you're eating?" she asked him.

Gold bit his lip. "I find my appetite . . . for food . . . is somewhat diminished at the moment," he admitted.

Belle blushed which he found charming.

They chatted about the weather, the best restaurants in town, the most likely trend for hemlines in the coming fall.

It was a pleasant supper.

# # # # #

Back at his house, Gold settled in on the sofa in his living room, sleeping with what was becoming a permanent erection, his gun and the little fluffy calico. Despite having washed his hands earlier, he still had a hint of Belle's fresh, warm scent on his fingers. It was like vanilla with a touch of cardamom, he decided.

He couldn't wait to taste her.

_She had given herself to him and he remembered her exploding in his hands. She had been willing to go to bed with him. He could have had her, relieved himself, enjoyed himself . . . and he had pushed her away. _

_Had she really wanted to be with him? Or was this just the satisfying afterglow of her first experience with having someone else draw an orgasm out of her? Was she just grateful?_

_Would he end up being just another man in the string of awful choices in men that she had made?_

_He desperately wanted her. She was like a cool breeze on a hot summer day, a candle in an ocean of darkness, a soft soothing voice amid a raucous callithumpous parade. She could still the demons that dwelt within him, cast away his shackles, free him from the bindings the past held on him. _

_He could be happy again._

Belle lay in his bed, her body heating up again, craving his touch - again. What must the man be thinking of her?

_She was supposed to be an engaged woman or, at least, a recently engaged woman. She had just met this man, but she had kissed him, passionately. He'd kissed her back. He touched her, touched her like no other man had ever touched her. What was wrong with her? She had known this man for a few days but she felt like she'd had a lifetime with him. She felt comfortable with him. _

_At the same time, he infuriated her. He was arrogant, smug, and conceited. _

_He was also brilliant, insightful and clever._

_And she suspected she would have mind-blowing sex with the man. He'd already taken her to a level of intimacy, a level of sheer pleasure that she had never experienced with any man before. _

_He also seemed to like her, really like her. He listened to her. He talked with her. She felt special around him, cared for, maybe not exactly respected, but certainly, she thought, desired._

_She really wished he had come on back to her bedroom, well, his bedroom. She imagined he would have her stripped off by now and she would be trying to concentrate to get his clothes off of him. Belle touched herself. _

_It wasn't the same. _

_She had never come so hard and so long as she had done for him. She should have been satisfied but she was already wanting to have those feelings again. And he had wrought this miracle just using his fingers. What would he be able to do with his mouth and his . . . ._

_She really needed to get a grip on herself. _

The next morning, Belle told him that she wanted to go back to her apartment to change and then over to Regina's for the morning. He nodded and drove her back to town. He was back into full policeman mode and had dressed in his three-piece suit. He needed to interview some other people about Lacey Redfern. He made sure she had his cell number in case she got any creepy feelings. And he called to make sure she would have someone, several someones, watching her back.

Before she got out of the truck, he took her in his arms. "You're going to be followed for your own protection, you understand." He raised his hand to the side of her face. "I really don't want anything to happen to you." Their faces were close. It was a matter of perhaps an inch between their lips. If either one of them leaned in a fraction, the magnetic force of their own bodies would pull them together.

Gold pulled back. "I'll connect with you for lunch."

He wasn't looking forward to this. But he had to check things out.

_Had someone been trying to kill Lacey – not Belle? Had Lacey been the target? He had assured Belle that she was the target (not exactly reassuring but it made Belle a non-suspect). In some ways Lacey-as-target made more sense. Belle was everyone's Little Miss Sunshine. Lacey was . . . well, she was not. Co-workers and acquaintances both suspected her of stealing. She hung out with a rough crowd, had a mean boyfriend. She had been pregnant and desperate. _

_Who else might have known she was pregnant? _

_The boyfriend?_

If they had been trying to kill Lacey then they would had to have known that Lacey was at Belle's. That narrowed the field considerably.

_Damn, there were only two who could have known that – Jones and Belle. They could be in it together. If it had been Jones's baby, then Belle could have killed her in revenge or Jones could have killed her to get rid of her. Belle and Jones could be in it together which is why they were protecting each other. _

_He really did hope that Belle had been the true target. _

He went through his notebook. There were quite a few that he had eliminated as having no motive – the banker, the landlady, the liquor store owner, the other models. Then there were the suspects. Cora and Regina – for either of these it could have been jealousy, an unwillingness to share. Jefferson – did he want the lucrative business that he likely stood to inherit? But Jefferson had a pretty solid alibi. He remembered the other odd theories that he'd had. Was it the ex-boyfriend angry that she was getting married? Or was it Lacey's boyfriend who was angry and fearful of Belle's interference. What was that character's name – Keith . . . Keith Nottingham.

He first stopped by Prêt á Porter and headed upstairs.

"Jefferson," he called out.

"Oh sweet," Jefferson came out holding onto some spools of laces. "I need a man's opinion. Which one of these would look best on a blonde?"

Gold looked at what appeared to be nearly identical strands of lace. He picked one at random.

"You think?" Jefferson tossed the one that Gold had picked and went with the other choice.

"I need to talk to you about Lacey Redfern," Gold told him.

The flamboyant Jefferson sobered up quickly. "That was sad. I'm sorry to say that I was glad to find out that Belle was alive, but, still . . ."

"Anybody have anything against Lacey?" he asked.

"Well, I told you she was unstable. We thought that she was stealing, but Belle never would take any action."

"Anything else?" Gold pressed.

"Well . . . uh . . . I . . . I don't know."

"Jefferson?" He could tell, the man was holding something back.

"I thought she might be pregnant. Her measurements had abruptly changed."

"Uh hummm," Gold responded. "If she had been, any idea who the daddy might have been?"

Jefferson was clearly uncomfortable with the line of questioning. "Well, she had a boyfriend."

"Keith Nottingham?" Gold asked.

"Yeah, I guess that was his name."

"You don't think much of him?

"Lacey would come in sometimes and it looked to me like she'd been knocked around some. Sometimes there'd be marks on her arms. And there was at least once that I thought she might have had a cracked rib."

"Think it was the boyfriend?"

"Don't know. But . . . if I was going to guess . . . . yeah, I'd say it was the boyfriend."

"Thanks," Gold told him and went back out to his truck and drove down to the Art's District.

He pulled into Gaston's art studio. He got out and eased into the concrete block building.

Gaston didn't remember meeting him initially, so Gold re-introduced himself and reminded Gaston that he had been investigating Belle's death but was now working on Lacey Redfern's demise.

"Yeah, I'd heard it was her that bought it and not Belle," Gaston told him. "Still pretty sorry deal."

"Know anybody that would want to hurt Lacey?" Gold asked him.

"Well, she had a bit of reputation, you know what I mean," Gaston told him.

"No, I don't know. What do you mean?" Maybe he could get the lunkhead to pass on some idle gossip.

"Well, she was supposed to be Keith's girlfriend but she was hardly exclusive. I'd heard she was stepping out with Belle's latest, that douchey guy she's supposed to hook up with."

"Was Lacey seeing anyone else?" Gold made a note.

"Well . . . "

"Did you and she ever . . . go at it?"

"Nah, man, I'm best buds with her boyfriend and truth to tell I wouldn't want to go up against Keith. He's got a temper. Been known to bust up a bar or two in his time. Wanna keep him on my side."

"And the night of Lacey's death, you had seen a movie with him and then got drunk together?" Gold reaffirmed Gaston's story.

"Yeah, that's right."

"Did you pass out first or did Keith?"

"Oh, nobody can drink Keith under the table. Hate to admit it, but I can't hold my beer near as well as he can," Gaston confessed.

"Anybody else you know Lacey might have pissed off?" he asked Gaston.

Gaston half closed his eyes _evidently he was thinking_. "I don't know. She was always needin' money. The best thing she had going for her was working for Belle."

Gold nodded. "Thanks." He started back to his truck but paused. "Oh yeah, how did Mr. Nottingham hurt his foot?"

"He hurt his foot?"

"Yeah, he was limping on it."

"Oh yeah," that seemed to jostle Gaston's memory. "He said he dropped somethin' on it at work."

Gold got back into his truck and double-checked his notes. _Keith had told him that he had tripped over something._ He made a phone call. He wanted a records' check. They promised to call him back. He then drove out to the garage. "Mr. Nottingham!" he called out.

Keith slowly came out wearing his ever present tool belt, with the screwdrivers sticking out of his pockets. He looked like he'd been bathing in used motor oil - smelled that way also.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Nottingham," Gold began.

"What loss? Oh you mean Lacey. Yeah, that was a bitch."

"Were you two engaged?" Gold asked him.

"Nah, but we were pretty exclusive," Keith told him. "I'd made it clear that I didn't want her stepping out with other guys."

"Were you aware of her relationship with Killian Jones?"

"Oh that," Keith shrugged. "You know there were rumors, but she was my girl, totally. I didn't put up with any shit out of her, you know."

"I heard that she wanted to break it off with you," Gold told him, watching him closely.

Keith glared at him. "Who told you that? Lacey would get some dumb-shit ideas from time to time. She weren't the smartest piece out there you know."

"You kept pretty close tabs on her?" he asked Keith.

Keith paused a moment, "Yeah, I expected her to answer her cell when I called."

"Know anybody who'd want to kill her?"

"Kill her? Why would they go to Belle French's apartment, if they wanted to kill Lacey? That don't make no sense," Keith responded.

"You kept close tabs on her, you say? Did you know she was going to Miss French's apartment Friday night?"

Keith spit to one side. "For once I didn't. I was hanging with my best bud and we both got drunk that night."

Gold had pulled out his notebook. "You'd said you had seen her last Saturday morning and she was going to her mother's." He shut the notebook. "But you couldn't have seen her then as she had been shot Friday night." He waited.

Keith blinked twice. "I guess I was mistaken. It must have been Friday morning."

"The word is that you two had a fight then." Gold still waited.

"Me and Lacey had fights every other week. It was a passionate relationship," Keith explained. "It didn't mean anything."

"You knew she was pregnant?" Gold asked him.

Keith looked surprised and was silent a moment, a long moment, "No, I didn't know. You sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm real sure," Gold told him.

# # # # #

Regina, Cora and Belle were getting mani-pedis together.

"It still doesn't make any sense to me, Belle. He's playing some sort of game with you," Cora began.

"I don't think so," Belle defended the enigmatic policeman.

"I don't deny that he's infatuated with you . . . well, in some warped way of his own. But I don't know that he's capable of any normal, warm human relationship. He's been dealing with criminals, working vice and undercover, too long." Regina selected her shade, a deep red color. Belle was going with the French style. Cora had gone with a brighter red.

Regina continued on, "You don't know what he was like when we all thought you were . . . gone. It was creepy. When you were unattainable, when he thought you were dead, that's when he wanted you most."

"But he was glad when I came back . . . as if he was waiting for me," Belle protested.

"You do know that he has all these unflattering terms for women, like knishes, skirts, dames, chicks, birds, and then it just gets nasty," Regina shared.

"That doesn't mean anything. He isn't like that with me," Belle protested.

"Belle, there you go again. You're always looking for the best side of people. And . . . " Cora lowered her voice, "and you always get swept up in their lives."

"I don't mind being nice to people," Belle said, as much to herself as to the other women.

"Oh Belle, darling, you're falling into your old pattern. If Gold wasn't that mixture of incisive intelligence and raw sex appeal, you'd see through him in a second," Cora tried to talk some sense into her.

"Cora," Belle began, "I would think you'd be encouraging a relationship between me and Lieutenant Gold. We all know that you like Killian and would prefer that I be out of the picture."

"I've told you, as Killian goes, I understand him. You don't. He's using you and eventually he'll cheat on you, if not with me, then with someone else, like that cheap floozy Lacey." Cora told her. "Look at your other choices in men, dear. Gaston, who we all know was an idiot and incapable of being faithful. Killian, who has expensive tastes and is also incapable of being faithful. And as for this Gold character, Belle, I'll give you that he's clever and even appealing to look at . . . "

Regina interrupted, "You think he's nice looking?"

"I do, dear and so do you. You always preen before we have to see him," Cora brushed her off. "But Belle, even counting his few, his very few, sterling qualities, he's arrogant and unpolished, hardly fit to move in the circles you move in."

"He's entitled to be arrogant, Cora. The man's brilliant. As for being unpolished, I would venture to say that he has his own charms. He certainly appreciates the finer things," Belle defended Gold. She was beginning to become irritated. Even if she hadn't been having feelings for the man, there was no reason for Cora to beat up on him.

"But you have so much more class than the man. He will only drag you down, pull you down to his level with his vulgar pawings," Cora told her.

_Belle thought she might be blushing hearing this – the man's 'vulgar pawings' had proven to be more than satisfactory. _

Cora continued, "He's the most dangerous kind of man there is. You fall in love with him and he'll rip your heart out. I promise you."

# # # # #

Gold might have taken the stairs two at a time if his leg had permitted it, but then he stopped on the first landing and double-checked the large window. The screen was fastened. He looked out onto the backlot, filled with stray shrubbery and the occasional scrawny tree. The drop was less than six feet, but it was onto uneven ground, and in the dark, it would have been a jump into the unknown. He went on up to the top floor, to Belle's apartment.

Belle was there, still with Cora and Regina, and beginning to pack up her things. She had decided she would need to relocate rather than try to stay in her apartment. It broke her heart to leave the place but there were too many unhappy memories for her to remain. The three women looked up when Gold burst in through the door.

"Haven't you heard of science's newest triumph – the doorbell?" Regina asked him.

Gold smirked, "I don't like to remind Belle. That was the murderer's signal."

Belle was there and she smiled at him, brightening his day.

He went over to her. "I thought you'd like to know. I just got a call. Forensics tested your shotgun from the cabin. It isn't the murder weapon. It seems to have only remnants of birdshot but the murder weapon shot heavier gauge buckshot," he reassured her.

"Now," Cora was shaking her head, "that's what I meant when I said he'd rip your heart out." She looked over at Belle, "A real key to the man's character. First he tells you that he thinks you're innocent and then proceeds to check up on you."

Gold waived her off, "When I report that I think she's innocent, that's my own personal opinion. When I submit proof, it becomes the opinion of the department."

Regina shook her head, "This entire maneuver could be a trick to get you off your guard," she warned Belle.

Gold sighed, "It could be, but it isn't."

"I believe you, Lieutenant," Belle told him, her eyes still lit up.

Cora rolled her eyes, "Belle, you've got to realize you're following that same self-destructive pattern," she reiterated her previous warning.

Belle closed her eyes and took a deep breath, "I mean to be as kind about this as I know how, but, I must tell you, Cora, you're the one who follows the same pattern. You find these hapless young men, keep them around for entertainment until you get bored. . . "

"Belle . . ." Cora began.

"Cora, I don't know that we should continue our relationship."

"Oh, Belle, you're not yourself, darling."

"Actually, I am. Perhaps for the first time in years. I believe I know exactly what I'm doing."

"Very well. I hope you'll never regret what promises to be a disgustingly earthy relationship. My congratulations, Gold," and Cora stomped out.

Regina had stood by watching. "That was bloody amazing. You know, it's probably not your smartest move to piss off my mother." Regina sighed, looking at the two who couldn't take their eyes off each other.

"Goodbye, Ms. Mills," Gold spoke to her without looking at her.

"Listen, I have a podcast to prepare on great lovers throughout history. You may want to catch it this evening."

"Goodbye, Regina," Belle told her.

Regina sighed again and let herself out.

Belle turned to Gold and allowed him to hug her. "I don't know why I said those things to Cora. I just got tired of her carping. And I know she mis-treats Killian," she looked at Gold. "I still care about Mr. Jones. He's really a nice guy . . . I know you don't think so."

"You are too nice, my darling," he told her, enjoying the feel of her in his arms.

"You are getting close to making an arrest? For real and for true?" she asked him, tracing her fingers up his arm all the way to his shoulder.

"All I need is the murder weapon." Gold pulled away and began moving about. "Let's see if I can make a better guess about what the killer might have done with the weapon." He paced over to the door. "The doorbell rang and Lacey Redfern went to the door in your negligee. She opened the door."

Gold assumed the position of the killer in the hallway. "The room was dark. The murderer saw a woman standing there and he assumed it was you. You were responsible for his world collapsing around his ears. He blamed you for taking away his girl. So he let you have it . . . with both barrels, right in the face. But it wasn't you. It was Lacey and she fell . . . here. The murderer heard Jones running in from the next room, so he hid in the stairway. He is perhaps smarter than we think he is, going _up_ the stairs to the roof, knowing anyone leaving the apartment would run downstairs. Jones was scared, so he ran out of your apartment as fast as he could – running downstairs. Then the murderer came back into the room. He was desperate. He knew Jones or one of the neighbors would call the police. He didn't want to be caught with the gun. He had to stash it some place quickly."

Gold looked around. There was Belle's clock, her exquisite milk-glass, hand-painted floor clock set in an ebony frame. He'd noticed the one at Regina's that first visit and this was its twin. He knelt down in front of the clock.

**Thank you, thank you, thank you to my ever faithful and insightful reviewers (it's their fault this chapter ran long because of all the ideas they kept giving me): juju0268, Grace5231973, RaFire, jamie. wan. kanobi (chapters 1 &amp; 8), Wondermorena, Aletta-Feather, Erik'sTrueAngel, onlyinyourdreams77, Robin4, MyraValhallah, OneMagician, jewel415, and cynicsquest,**

_NEXT: Gold discovers the murder weapon_

_Belle and Gold get closer _

_Gold has occasion to give us The Full Monty_


	14. Full Disclosure

**A Walk in Ashes**

_Gold and Belle profess their mutual attraction but they avoid consummation in deference to a pale semblance of professionalism on Gold's part. The next morning, Gold reviews his notes and decides to revisit acquaintances of Lacey Redfern, including Jefferson - one of Belle's designers, Gaston - Belle's ex-boyfriend, and Keith Nottingham - Lacey's boyfriend. There is growing evidence that Keith was abusive and, Gold suspects, likely the father of Lacey's baby. He notes some inconsistencies in Keith's story regarding an injured foot. _

_Spending some time with her girlfriends, Belle is distressed when Cora and Regina both warn her against Gold, Cora being particularly vindictive. Belle defends Gold and suggests to Cora that perhaps they should part company._

_Gold rejoins Belle and begins to re-enact the murder as if he is the killer. He realizes the killer would be desperate to dispose of the murder weapon and finds himself standing in front of Belle's large ebony and porcelain clock._

**Chapter 14**

**Full Disclosure**

**A.N. There's a fair amount of smut in the opening of this chapter (this is why this story has an M rating).**

Gold looked around. He knelt down in front of the large wood and porcelain clock that Belle had in her foyer, the first thing a person would see when coming into her apartment.

"What are you doing?" Belle asked him, kneeling down next to him as he began to try to take out the bottom panel.

"Do you have a screwdriver?"

Belle went into the kitchen and returned with a purple-handled flat head.

Gold gave the uniquely colored tool and then Belle a brief glance. Belle caught a small smile on the policeman's face as he applied the tool to the panel. "Look there's only this one screw at the top that's fastened. The others are missing. The panel's just been propped in. Surprised that Mrs. Potts hadn't noticed – not to mention the forensic team that was supposed to have searched your place."

As the panel slide away, Gold peered inside the base of the clock and saw what he was looking for. He motioned for Belle to look deep inside the clock.

"Have you ever seen this before?" he asked her.

Belle peered inside the opened base of the clock. "No, I didn't know the clock would even open up. Oh my god! Is that . . . is that the murder weapon?"

"Could be. It looks to be the right type of gun. I hope I don't have to tell you not to touch anything. Fingerprints will be important. I'll have the clock and the gun picked up today."

He stood up and made a phone call. "Forensics will be coming up here and they can see if we can get fingerprints off the weapon and the clock," he told her. "If it comes up like I think it will, we may very well be able to make the arrest before supper."

"So you're sure that I was the target all along," Belle said. "I thought for a while there you thought that perhaps Lacey was the real target."

"I did, but no one, except Jones, knew that she was going to be in your apartment. So unless he was the killer . . . ," he shrugged, then continued. "My chief suspects all knew you were going to be out of town so they wouldn't have come here to kill you. The killer had to be someone who didn't know you were going to be out of town. Someone who came here to kill you in a rage, angry at you, blaming you for their problems."

Belle sat down in a chair in her dining area, her face solemn and sad. "So the murderer didn't really kill Lacey," Belle began. "I killed her."

"What? What are you talking about?" Gold sat down next to her.

"I did, Rumple. I did as surely as if I'd pulled the trigger myself."

"That's nonsense. Forget it."

"I made someone angry, very angry. If I hadn't, then Lacey would still be alive."

"I can understand . . . somewhat . . . how you feel, Belle . . . maybe. But you know, I can't understand why you've tried so hard to protect Jones these last few days."

"I was nearly frantic for fear you'd arrest him. I knew he wasn't guilty. He hasn't enough courage to kill a fly. And Regina was doing everything she could to incriminate him. It would be her way of getting rid of Jones, just as she did Gaston."

Gold shook his head, "I must say, for a charming, intelligent woman, you've certainly surrounded yourself with a remarkable collection of dopes." He stood up.

"What are you going to do?" Belle asked him standing up next to him.

"I can assign motive and opportunity. I just need to tie the killer to the weapon. Then I can make an arrest."

"Rumple?" Belle was not sure where he was going with this. She didn't want him walking out of her life. She decided to make a move.

"I can do this. I have a suspect." He reassured her and started towards the door. Belle reached out to him and pulled him to her. She held his face in her hands and gently began kissing him. After a moment of stunned silence, he began to kiss her back.

He pulled away. "It's . . . . it's the middle of the afternoon," he stammered.

"The better to see you," Belle slowly told him. "Come," and she led him back into the hallway that led to her bedroom and pushed him against the wall. She smashed herself against him. "I think if you've caught the killer, we don't have to wait anymore," she told him.

"Wait for what?" he asked, a might confused.

"For this," she told him between kisses. "My biggest regret is that I didn't meet you sooner." And she began to pull off his jacket and, succeeding, dropped it to the floor. Then she began to work on the two button vest, jerking it down his arms and having it follow the jacket to the floor. She began to unfasten his shoulder harness.

Gold had always been a bit slow when it came to women, but Belle's invitation was unmistakable.

"I'm not a suspect any more, right?" she pulled back and asked him, affirming her suspicions.

"No, but I . . ." he was a bit confused and struggled to formulate an answer. Her intentions were clear but he wasn't sure why . . . why she would want him? _She wasn't tired. She wasn't scared. She wasn't drunk. _

His body, however, was not confused and had had an immediate response. After the merest moment of hesitation, he moved quickly to begin to tug and pull off her clothes - his hands, like hers, moving in a flurry of motions, both helping to remove his own clothes while attempting to remove hers. He stripped off her skirt and very nearly tore off her blouse, all the while finishing the battle to remove his shoulder harness, his gun clunking to the floor. Belle was left in a lacy little bra and matching lace cotton panties. Abruptly, Gold reversed positions, turning Belle so that her back was against the wall.

She reached up and pulled his tie off, then leaned in and bit a button off his shirt, spitting it out to the side. Her small hand then managed to reach down to unfasten his belt and she slid the leather out of the loops.

"I think my knee will be up for this. You're just a mite of thing," he told her and he reached to pull down her sodden panties. _No mistaking her interest in him. _He then reached down to unzip his own pants and he was able to pull himself out¸ already engorged and hardened for her.

"You are sure about this?" he had to ask, just to be completely convinced his attentions were welcomed, desired.

"Of course, I'm sure," she told him and assisted him as she could when he began to lift her. She was able to wrap her legs around him. Her arms were set on his shoulders, bracing herself as she could, her back against the wall.

Caught up in the heat of passion, he dropped her just enough so that he could enter her, claiming her without preamble, slamming her against the wall, driving into her, pulling back and pushing hard into her again. The immediate sensation was totally consuming and Belle felt her body tighten and respond, pulsing around him without benefit of foreplay. She cried out as the orgasm abruptly washed over her.

Gold pulled back enough to look at Belle face, tilted back, her eyes closed, her mouth opened. He'd been surprised but couldn't fail to recognize her quick, intense reaction. He managed to whisper, "Nice." _Another time he would smile about this._

Slightly stunned, Belle still managed to hold on for all she was worth, her hands fisted into the shoulders of his shirt. Now with each hard push she began to feel that familiar coiling beginning to roil in her stomach. Somehow he was still able to kiss her, his mouth turning slightly to the side to press against hers. Her breaths began to shorten, catching onto the timing of his thrusts, driving her, pounding her into the wall, the solid, unyielding wall. He felt her begin to shiver and grow rigid before splintering in his hands. There was a short ragged cry and he knew she had tipped over and lost herself to him. He gave a few more thrusts and with a groan and a muttered, "Fuck!" he released himself in several long _enormously satisfying_ sprays of his seed. His leaned forward, his head resting on the wall. Belle slowly began to slip out of his grasp.

They rested on each other, both breathing heavily. Belle slowly became aware that she was nearly naked except for her bra and her shoes. His body still covered hers and he was stroking her hair and murmuring soft nonsense words into her ear.

"Are you all right? That was a bit rough and . . . unexpected," he asked.

"I'm fine," she shook her head. "I'm great," she corrected. "That was the most intense experience I've ever had . . . twice. Oooo," she said, looking down. "I'm leaking."

"Oh lord, Belle, I didn't think . . . are you using birth control?" He was all contrition and concern.

She smiled at him, "I am."

"Well, I'm pretty sure I'm clean. It's been a while for me," he confessed. "I'm sorry, though, I should've thought before I jumped you."

"I thought I jumped you," Belle told him.

Gold gave her one of his almost smiles, twitching the corner of his mouth, "Let's say it was a mutual jumping." He pulled her over to him, reaching behind her to unfastened her bra, leaving her naked _but for her shoes_. She instinctively put her hands across her breasts but he gently put his hands on hers and pulled them down. "You don't need to hide yourself from me. You are perfect. Absolutely beautiful." He kissed her on the nose and traced his fingers along the curvature of her breasts. "What just happened was great, fantastic, but it was altogether too fast. Let's say we adjourn to that bedroom of yours and try it again, a bit more slowly."

Belle nearly skipped leading him back to bedroom. "We need to finish getting you undressed," she told him.

"By all means, lady," he told her.

# # # # #

Belle relaxed, snuggling down in her soft cotton sheets, relishing the warm body of the man next to her.

A moment before, with some eager assistance from Belle, Gold had removed his remaining clothes. She had been able to gaze on his slender compactly muscular form. There were scars aplenty, especially on his knee which had been bashed into an unrecognizable knob of bone and flesh. He was obviously uncomfortable with her looking at it, but when she rested her hand on the knee, her face reflecting her concern, he was able to look her in the eyes.

"This still hurts?" she asked him.

"Yes, I'm missing cartilage and it's bone against bone. It's been mangled so badly they can't do a replacement."

"You're so brave," she whispered.

"I'm so lucky," he told her. He had joined her on the bed.

"You're also very pretty," she told him. this time her fingers tracing down his chest.

He snorted. "I'm not but if you want to think so, I'm fine with that." He placed her on her back, halfway sitting up on some pillows. He had turned on his side so that he could run a hand down her arm and then . . . slowly . . . up her body, lingering on her breast. "I think that first time was rather primal. I'd really like to do it again, a little more slowly and . . . softly."

Belle ran her hand along his arm. "Considering I've never, ever come even close during sex, I suspect that maybe, just maybe, I might like it rough."

"Maybe, we'll have to do some experimentation to see. Although right now, I'd like to lick every inch of your body," he grinned at her.

"Really?" she squeaked.

"This smooth, perfect skin. I want to taste you all over," he nipped at her playfully. "You must know that you smell delicious." He lent his attentions to one of her breasts, circling it with his fingers and teasing the nipple into a hard little nub. "Do you like hard pressure here?" he asked her, his fingers gently holding onto the nipple while he intently watched her face.

"I don't know," she told him. "Like what do you mean?" She really didn't know. Her previous lovers had been more in and out and gone.

"Like this," and he rolled the nipple, applying firm pressure with his fingers until he reached a point that he was pinching her.

"Ow," she said and he immediately released her.

"Sorry, just trying to learn what you like," and he leaned in and kissed her right on the nipple, suckling on it and pulling it into his mouth.

"Ow," Belle said again, her hand settling on the back of his head.

He stopped but Belle pulled him back down to her. "Those were good 'ow's,'" she told him in a breathless voice.

"Really?" He wanted to be sure.

"Yeah," Belle sounded just a little desperate and Gold could not help but feel a surge of satisfaction.

"All right. So maybe we can try this," and he re-addressed his mouth to one nipple and his clever, knowing fingers to the other nipple.

Listening to the mewling sounds that the lady was emitting, he felt like he was hitting a spot . . . maybe not _the_ spot but a spot.

Belle's doorbell rang.

It was like being doused in cold water.

"Damnation! It's probably the forensic group come for the clock and the gun." He started up.

"Why don't you stay here and think about what you might want to do to me," she suggested. And she slipped out of bed to slip on a simple knit tunic that reached mid-thigh.

"I can see your nipples," he told her. Belle pulled a face at him and reached into her closet to grab a lightweight jacket.

"Better?" she asked him.

"I know you're naked underneath that," he told her, pretending to leer at her, _well,_ _perhaps not really pretending_.

"That should keep your motor running," she told him on the way out to answer the door.

The doorbell rang again.

And suddenly. . .

Every hair on Gold stood on end. . .

Every antennae sprang to attention. . .

The little voice that every police officer had, began to scream.

"NO! BELLE, NO!" he cried out and vaulted from the bed.

Without pausing to even wrap a towel around himself, he burst from the bedroom to see that he was too late. Belle had answered the door.

Keith Nottingham stood in the door holding a gun on Belle. He glanced over at Gold and sneered. "Bad time?"

Despite his appearance, Gold didn't hesitate, "Keith, we already know that you were the one who shot Lacey. You came here to shoot Belle that night, not knowing she was out of town, not knowing that Lacey was here. You blamed Belle for taking her away from you and you wanted to get her back." Gold spoke in soft, low tones.

"I didn't mean to kill Lacey. I loved her," Keith protested.

"I know you did," Gold told him slowly circling back and forth, moving like a snake charmer, gradually getting closer to Keith, his own nudity not hampering him in the least. "You didn't know she was pregnant, did you? You thought she was sleeping around on you, sleeping with Killian Jones. And you thought that Belle was helping her, helping her get away from you."

"She was mine!" Keith shouted. "She belonged to me! And then," he swung on Belle, "This bitch started telling her she was too good for me! She started getting ideas that she didn't need me anymore. You ruined everything!" And Keith, his arm shaking, raised the gun, pointing it towards Belle's head.

Gold knew he had one and only one chance. He launched himself at Keith, springing across the room in a flying tackle. Belle took that moment to duck down and out of the way.

Keith and Gold rolled on the floor, one tall and burly and the other wiry and determined. Keith had a history as a bar fighter but he relied on his size and brute force. Gold, being a smaller man yet more experienced, was more scientific in his approach to a fight, hitting Keith in his ears, his neck, his kidneys, all vulnerable places. Yet neither one could gain an advantage over the other, both grappling with the gun. Belle watched in fear but was unable to see how she could help Gold, not when there was a loaded gun between them.

At that moment, two plain-clothed officers showed up at the door. They pulled their guns on Gold and Keith.

But the two combatants continued to roll on the floor.

"Freeze!" one of the officers shouted attempting to get the attention of the two assailants.

Then everyone in the room heard the gun go off.

"NO!" Belle shouted, immediately throwing herself onto Gold.

There was groaning.

"No, no, no, please, please, please be all right," she was near crying,

"I'm all right," he managed to tell her.

"Hey, this other guy's bleeding," one of the officers said examining Keith. "I'm calling an ambulance." At the same time, the officer retrieved the gun.

The other officer trained his gun on Gold.

"It's all right guys, I'm Lieutenant Gold, Special Crimes Unit. My badge is in my pants in the bedroom."

The officer looked suspicious but his partner spared a moment from making his call and took a good look at Gold. "That is Lieutenant Gold, although he's out of uniform."

"Thank you for stating the obvious. You," Gold pointed to the officer who was not on the phone, "Come with me while I get my badge. . . and my pants," he added.

Gold's authoritative tone caused the officer to pause. He was clearly not used to being told what to do by a naked man.

Belle spoke up, "He really is a police officer. This man," she pointed to Keith. "killed a woman in this apartment. He thought he was killing me. Lieutenant Gold was the one who called you to come and get my clock for forensics to go over," she explained

"Yes ma'am," the officer who'd called for the ambulance nodded.

Gold had made it back to the bedroom, found his pants, found his badge and showed it to the officer. "Mind if I get dressed?" he asked.

"Please do so, sir," the officer said. "Please."

"The man out there is Keith Nottingham. Assuming he survives, I'm arresting him for the attempted murder of Belle French. If the forensics come back on the gun in the clock like I think they will, then I'll make a second arrest for the murder of Lacey Redfern."

Keith had come to and was groggy. "I'm shot?" he muttered.

Belle had come over to him and knelt by him. "Keith, I'm so sorry. I was trying to help Lacey. She loved you but couldn't live you, not when you kept hurting her. She didn't deserve that."

"But I loved her. She shouldn't have tried to leave me."

"She wouldn't have tried to leave you if you had quit hurting her."

"I didn't know she was pregnant," Keith managed to whisper.

Belle continued to kneel by Keith, removing her jacket to staunch the freely bleeding wound in his side, then actually holding his hand until the ambulance got there. The medics looked him over and shook their heads. They did some immediate first aid and loaded him up and took him away.

The officers managed to load the clock onto a dolly and hauled it away with the gun still inside.

Belle collapsed into Gold, her hands still stained with blood.

"Woman, you are a good soul. That guy would have killed you if he'd had the chance. He made two attempts," Gold told her reeling in disbelief that she had offered comfort to the man. He would have poured salt in the asshole's wounds.

"Keith was pretty screwed up, judging by some of the things that Lacey told me," Belle cried into his shoulder. "I feel sorry for him but . . . I don't want him wandering around on the street."

"Listen, why don't we get properly dressed and go out for something to eat. I can call someone who can get this cleaned up." He positioned himself between Belle and the blood on the carpet.

"Maybe, we . . . would you mind . . . could we go back to your house for tonight?" Belle asked him. "I don't feel . . . right here anymore." She looked up at him, "I feel safe at your house."

He looked at her. "Why don't you wash off and get a bag together and we can do that."

"You don't mind?"

He had to smile at her. "I hate it's under these circumstances, but I welcome you to my house."

He took her to Farm Burger for supper, figuring the wholesome, familiar food would provide some comfort.

"You were incredible," she told him sitting down at their table. "Coming out Full Monty to face down Keith."

He grimaced. "I didn't think I had time to grab anything and I had to get out there to distract the man."

"Well, you certainly were distracting," she commented blushing.

"I figured being accosted by a naked man would throw him off his game for a moment."

"Not something you see every day," Belle confirmed.

"Just a little something I could do," he told her.

Belle smiled at him and put her hand on his. "Not so little," she assured him.

Gold ordered the Number 6, a burger with a fried egg, bacon and cheese, while Belle ordered their Number 1 Farm Burger with added lettuce, tomato and pickles. At Gold's urging they both ordered beer, a Fat Tire for Belle and a Pisgah Pale Ale for himself.

"You knew it was Keith all along, didn't you?" she asked him sipping on her beer.

"Not a first. I'd eliminated both Regina, who knew you would be out of town, and Jones, who I didn't think would have the balls to do cold-blooded murder. At first I thought it was Cora. She didn't know you were going to be out of town. She had motive, if Jones could be considered a motive. But a shot gun . . . just didn't fit her style."

"You thought she would be more likely to stab somebody or poison them."

"Yeah. I also didn't think she'd risk Jones being implicated. In her own way she cares about him."

"For now," Belle finished for him.

"But Keith. He didn't know you were going to be out of town. He had motive, thinking you were breaking up his relationship with Lacey. He had opportunity, leaving his best friend drunk and passed out, driving over to your apartment and . . . . He obviously had means, with access to at least two guns and he knew how to use them. I had him checked out. He's got a history of assault. He also regularly carried a variety of screwdrivers in his pocket." Gold took a drink. "There were also inconsistencies. There were two stories of how he'd hurt his foot – tripping over something and dropping something on it. No reason to lie about something so trivial. I think, after stashing the gun, he went down the stairs, and not wanting to be seen leaving the building, he opened the window on that first landing, unfastened the screen and jumped down behind this building. He hurt it in the fall. He also lied about seeing Lacey on Saturday morning. He thought he had killed you and didn't realize that it was Lacey he'd shot."

"I get why he would lie about his foot injury, although you'd think he'd stick to one story. Why would he say he'd seen Lacey?"

"I guess he figured that she was still alive and assumed she had gone to visit her mother. He didn't know he'd killed her and no one else had seen her after Friday. He likely thought that saying she'd left Saturday would look less like she was running away from him."

Gold's phone rang. He frowned. "I don't recognize the number," he said.

Belle looked at it. "It's Regina," she told him.

"Damn," he said, clearly debating answering it.

"Go ahead. She won't give up," Belle told him.

He answered it. "Yeah?"

"Darling. Just want to remind you to listen to my podcast. I think you'll like it."

Belle smiled and pulled out her own phone. "Let me find it," she told him. They came in on the tail end.

"And thus, as history has proved, love is eternal. It has been the strongest motivation for human actions throughout centuries. Love is stronger than life."

"Well that's nice," Belle said.

"Are we going to have to replay the whole thing?" he asked.

"I'll do it and give you a quick synopsis, in case she grills you on it," Belle promised him.

**Thx so much to all those reviewers for sticking with me to the Big Reveal: Grace5231973, cynicsquest, RaFire, Tinuviel Undomiel, Wondermorena, kagi-chan2, Erik'sTrueAngel, Too Nice (Guest), jewel415, Robin4. onlyinyourdreams77, deweymay, OneMagician, and orthankg1 (chapters 12 &amp; 13)**

_NEXT: It's the last chapter. I'll be tying up some lose ends:_

_Belle and Gold come to a mutual understanding_

_Belle has a special surprise for Gold_


	15. Invitations

**A Walk in Ashes**

_Gold locates what may be the murder weapon inside Belle's large antique floor clock and calls for a Forensics Unit to come and get both the clock and the gun. At this point he feels he likely has the murderer identified. Belle reaches out to him and initiates a passionate, very satisfying, interlude. They have adjourned to her bedroom when the doorbell rings. Belle re-attires to answer it, but Gold's intuition belatedly warns him. In a near-panic, he jumps from the bed and follows Belle only to find that Keith Nottingham is holding a gun on her. He attempts to distract Keith but when Keith raises the gun to Belle's head, he makes a diving tackle and the two men grapple together on the floor. They are interrupted by the Forensics Unit but it is a gunshot that stops the fight. Gold is allowed to re-dress and, in astonishment, he watches Belle try to comfort the seriously injured Keith. _

**Invitations**

**Chapter 15**

Life was trying to return to normal.

But Belle couldn't bring herself to return to her old apartment. She'd spent the one night with Gold, shivering at remembering how well he had kept to his promise to lick her all over. He had done several other things, too, and very well . . . very, very well.

The next morning he'd taken her out to breakfast and then dropped her off at Prêt á Porter. There had been a profuse apology on her answering machine waiting for her from Cora who begged her forgiveness . . . and could she get an appointment to get a couple of dresses for the Christmas party season?

But then . . . then there had been no further contact from Gold, except for an officer coming by her shop and dropping off the clothes and sundry she had left at Gold's house. Belle had heard through the news media that Keith had died in the hospital from the gunshot wound sustained in the struggle. She'd also gotten a call from Emma to let her know that Forensics had found Keith's prints on the clock and on the rifle that was in the clock. The rifle had been loaded with buckshot.

The case was being closed out.

But, Emma also told her, Gold was in trouble for dereliction of duty – being found naked on the job and all. Belle had expressed concerns, but Emma reminded her that Gold was like a cat – he'd land on his feet.

Belle had been staying with her bff, Ruby, for nearly a week now. Ruby was one hundred percent welcoming, but Belle still felt like she was an intruder. She was well aware that Ruby had an active social life and had put this on hold while babysitting her.

"Why don't you just call the man," Ruby had told her _more than once._

"But if he hasn't called me then it's because he doesn't want to hear from me," Belle told her friend.

"Or he's shy or has low self-esteem or he was embarrassed and doesn't dare make the first move."

Belle had to giggle at the idea that Lieutenant Gold was shy or had low esteem – a more arrogant, smug, superior individual she had never met.

But then she thought about it. She was, after all, a nationally famous designer and he, well he often would refer to himself as 'just' a policeman. Maybe he thought she thought she was too good for him.

Belle nearly snorted. _What nonsense!_

"The guy clearly has the hots for you, girl," Ruby had told her. "You told me that he nailed you up against the wall in the hallway. That sounds like somebody so full of passion that he can't even get you back to a bedroom. Call the man!"

"Well maybe it was just the conquest thing. Maybe he thought I wasn't very good. Maybe he was just caught up in the moment."

Ruby rolled her eyes. "Just call the man!"

Belle did make a call. But not to Gold. She called back Emma.

"He got a slap on the wrist for not having his badge on him," Emma told her. "Probably right now, he's back to his usual moping around, lying out on his back deck drinking himself into a stupor. I know that because he hasn't come in to bitch at me for anything," the pretty M.E. told her.

"What should I do?" Belle asked. "I thought that maybe we had a connection, that he liked me."

"Oh Belle, this is a man who's been betrayed by every woman he's ever cared for. He doesn't believe that you could possibly have any feelings for him," Emma tried to explain.

"But Emma, we . . . well, we . . ."

"Okay, listen," Emma interrupted. "If you're about to tell me that you did the nasty with the guy, please keep it to yourself. I'm dating his son. I don't need to hear about how my potential father-in-law is in the sack."

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone.

"Oh lord, he was that good, huh?" Emma asked. "No, no, don't answer that. I might get a visual. Here, I've got an idea. Let me check on something. If it goes the way I think it will, I'll call you back and give you an excuse to call him."

True to her word, Emma had called her back within a half hour.

Belle listened and nodded. _It was a good excuse. A really good excuse._

_# # # # #_

Gold had closed out the Belle French affair. He was free to sit on his back deck drinking himself into a state of enervation again. Dearie often joined him, exploring around the back deck but not venturing far from his side.

Oh, he had come through the departmental hearing with flying colors. "Hey, I identified the killer. Stopped him from killing again. Unfortunately, he shot himself in a struggle with me. If you don't like my methods . . . you know what we can do."

His skills, his reputation, his sheer force of personality - they had agreed with him. He was still in the catbird seat. They had backed down and compromised by putting him on paid administrative leave for a month – like he wouldn't have been on paid administrative vacation anyway after solving this case as per his established agreement with them.

He looked over his mail. He had an invitation to a party hosted by Regina. He put it aside. He had another invitation to one of Cora's parties. That one he tossed.

_He couldn't stop thinking about Miss French._

They'd spent one incredible passionate afternoon and night together. He'd estimated there had been seven orgasms, not counting the three he'd had himself. At his age, he felt he deserved to feel pretty proud of his efforts.

He knew that Belle had gone back to work. He'd had some of the men in the force check on her and found that she was back in her shop finishing up on next spring's designs, the fall line already well into production and due to hit the stores any moment.

He missed her, terribly, but didn't think she'd welcome any intrusions. She was a dynamic business woman without a lot of time for . . . well, for intrusions.

At best, he thought, he'd been a momentary distraction from the whole ugly situation she'd been caught up in, someone she could regale her friends with. Every woman wants to do a policeman or fireman at some point, just for fun, of course, nothing serious.

At worst, she'd look back on him as a moment of extreme indiscretion on her part, something she'd want to put behind her and forget about – yet another man in her series of disastrous choices in male companionship.

His phone rang. When he saw the number his heart leapt.

"Hello," he answered. He knew his heart was pounding like a school boy's. _She'd probably realized she'd left something in his truck._

"Have lunch with me?"

"Sure." He would have agreed to any request she made.

"Pick me up?"

"Can do."

"At the shop?"

"No problem."

"One o'clock?"

"Uh huh,"

"I'll be waiting."

"Great."

He put his phone down. Dearie had jumped up on his lounge chair and had walked along the edge to get a head rubbing from him. She was purring loudly.

Just the sound of her voice had made him get hard. _Damn. _

_There had been that one splendid moment that one awful afternoon. But then he had recklessly, caught up in his own passions, put her in danger, then barely, just barely, he'd saved her. Sloppy police work. _

She was too good for him.

But she wanted to see him again.

She waited for him outside of her shop, wearing a bright yellow sundress and white strappy heeled sandals, looking for his stalwart silver truck, so distinctive from all other vehicles. She stood, waiting for him.

She spotted him turning onto Haywood. Her heart skipped a beat. She could feel it pounding like a school girl's.

He slowed up and pulled over to the curb. His truck wasn't easy for the petite woman to climb into but she seemed to have perfected the task.

"Your skirt's too short," he said disapprovingly.

"You like it," she told him.

"Yes, but I don't like other men looking at your legs," he told her honestly.

"As long as all they can do is look . . ." she told him, giving him her dazzlingly smile.

He snorted and changed gears to get them back into traffic. "Where to milady?"

"Local Taco?" she suggested.

He nodded. "We could've walked."

"Will parking be a problem?" she asked him.

He smirked. "No, I have a special tag I can hang in the window."

They drove down to Lexington to the little hole in the wall taco restaurant. Gold parked in a No Parking area and placed his "Police" tag on the rear view mirror.

He got out, walked around and helped Belle down.

They placed their order, smoked salmon for Gold and tequila lime chicken for Belle with iced tea for both to drink. Belle was very quiet while they waited for their meals. Gold watched her.

"You have something on your mind," he finally told her.

"Two things actually," she confessed.

He sat quietly, knowing she would share when she was ready.

"I haven't been staying in my apartment," she told him. "I just don't feel . . . comfortable . . . right . . . safe . . . there."

"Understandable. You need to move into a more secure building."

"I've been staying with Ruby, but . . . well, Ruby tends to have guests."

"So you're another guest," he replied. Their food had arrived.

She shook her head. "You don't understand. Ruby has . . . _guests._"

"Ooooh," Gold abruptly understood. "So it's a bit . . ."

"Awkward . . . crowded . . . yeah. Regina's asked me, but I don't think I'd be comfortable staying with her."

Gold had to smile at this. "Regina also has _guests."_

"Yeah, sure. And for a lot of other reasons, I'm just not comfortable staying under her roof," Belle explained. "Now, Emma has also offered."

"My Emma?" he questioned.

"Your Emma, although I don't know she'd appreciate you calling her that."

"Definitely not," he agreed, then shrugged. "So stay with her."

"Well, Emma doesn't really know me. I think she was just being kind." Belle dropped her eyes.

Gold hesitated. _This would be a long shot. _"Well, I don't know if I could possibly help. But I do have extra rooms in my place. We could put a bed in one of the second floor rooms and make it into a bedroom."

Belle looked at him coolly and he backtracked.

"It would be strictly platonic, understand. I wouldn't want you to think I would take advantage of you in your . . . hour of need."

"So there wouldn't be any . . . sex?" she asked demurely.

"Oh no. I would never think of imposing . . ." he had broken eye contact and was looking intently at the taco on his plate. He lifted his glass to take a drink.

"Well," Belle said slowly. "I had thought of asking if I could stay with you, but. . . well, if there's _not_ going to be any sex, I don't see the point."

Gold spewed his drink. He looked up struggling to recover from nearly strangling on his tea. She was very nearly grinning at him.

"I might want to convert one of those empty rooms into an in-home library or office but as for a bedroom, well, I was sort of hoping you'd agree that there was room enough for the both of us in that rice bed."

He looked at her. "Are you saying that you'd . . . you'd like to . . . move in with me?"

"You act like that surprises you," she said to him. She reached for his hand. "I know we don't know each other very well, but I rather think there's something special between us. Certainly the sex is amazing. I'd like to see if we have anything else going for us."

"You're not offering this, just because I. . . I . . . I saved your life and all? Are you?" he asked.

Belle folded her arms. "Lieutenant Gold," she was using her Business Woman's Voice. "Do you think for one single moment that I'm the kind of woman who would repay a favor using her body?"

"No, absolutely not, no," he quickly answered.

"Do you think I would offer to move into your house, your bed, just because I felt_ gratitude_?" her voice was getting quieter and quieter.

"No ma'am, no," he answered quickly.

"Do you think that I would offer to do this for any other reason than I was falling in love with you?"

"You are?" he asked. "I love you, I mean, I'm falling in love with you too!" He was shaking his head. "I just didn't realize that you were feeling the same way. I mean I'm so much older than you. I'm not one of those pretty people you spend a lot of time with. I'm . . . " he looked up at her, struggling.

She narrowed her eyes, "Oh, I wouldn't be so quick to say you're not going to fit in with that 'remarkable collection of dopes' I keep around me. But, if you're going to say anything about not being worthy, or nice enough, or anything else, so help me, I'm going to punch you, worse, I'm going to have Emma punch you."

He took a deep breath. "I'd be honored if you would move in with me, into my house, my bed, Miss French."

"I will be expecting sex," she told him.

"Yes ma'am."

"And on a regular basis," she added.

"Yes ma'am."

"A couple of times a week," she clarified.

"Yes ma'am."

"Possibly every day," she explained.

"I'll try to rise to the occasion," he promised her.

"At least once a day," she specified.

"I'll put a Viagra salt lick on the back deck."

"Good then, I'm glad that's settled." She sat back to enjoy her lunch. "I don't know if we have anything between us other than great sex but I think it's worth finding out. I want to find out all about you, what you like to do, what you like to eat, what you watch on television. I know it all seems sudden, but I'm accustomed to making quick decisions about very important things. I've been wrong a few times about men, I admit, but I've been right about my business. I'm willing to take a risk with you, knowing it may all fall apart. I'm thinking we'll take things as they happen and not make any long term plans." She took a bite of her food.

He sat digesting what had just happened. _OMG, this woman wanted to move in with him . . . and have sex with him. Lots and lots of sex._

"Now there is a second thing," she told him.

"Huh?" he was still thinking about lots and lots of sex with Belle French.

"Oh yes. I've been talking with Emma . . . a lot," she began.

"I didn't know that. That can't be good," he said more to himself than to her.

"You know she's seeing your son?" she asked him.

Gold looked up. "I had heard something of a rumor that that was happening," he responded slowly.

"Well, I got his number and I called him."

"Belle, thank you, but he doesn't want to see me . . ." Gold began.

"Well, there you're wrong," Belle told him.

He looked up. "What?!"

"He's agreeable to having lunch with you - in a public place. He's not making any promises, but he thought if Emma and I were there also, it might make things easier all around, like we could be a buffer. Next Saturday, Razzaz's. We have a reservation."

Gold sat quietly, wordless in astonishment.

"I wanted to do something to thank you for saving my life. I thought getting you re-connected with your son might go a little ways towards that," she explained.

When Gold didn't respond, Belle looked at him. He had tears in his eyes.

"Belle, this is more than I could ever. . . " He reached over and pulled her head to his to kiss her directly on the mouth. When he sat back, he tried to speak. "Even if nothing more comes of this, Belle, this is the most wonderful thing that anyone has ever done for me."

"I'm happy to do it. I was really nervous that one or both of you would reject getting back together outright, but Neil was fine . . . as long as there was a buffer. . . " Belle trailed off. When Gold didn't say anything, Belle looked up through her lashes. He was staring at her intensely. His eyes had darkened.

"What say we finish up here right now?" he asked her.

'All right," Belle immediately agreed.

Gold signaled the waitress and paid the bill. He then took Belle by the elbow.

"Do you need to call anyone to let them know that you might not make it back to the office?" he asked her.

"What?!"

"I'm abducting you . . . for the rest of the afternoon. That rice bed worked well that first night together, but I think we need to have a second trial on it."

Belle hesitated a half-moment. "All right," she agreed enthusiastically.

# # # # #

This time no one rang the doorbell.

Gold had thought it likely that if any unfortunate soul had interrupted them by ringing the bell, he'd've have probably shot them.

They had barely made it into his house, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor of the truck, on the garage floor and the kitchen floor. They didn't make it to the bedroom, instead Gold had set her on his kitchen table running his hands over her smooth beautiful body. He'd lifted her legs so they were resting on his shoulders and pulled her toward the edge of the table. He brushed his hand against her and could tell that she was more than ready, her moisture seeping and dampening his hand. He was certainly more than ready, his cock standing in full salute nearly pressing into his stomach. He set one hand on her stomach to prevent her from lifting up and began to push into her. She was easily able to accept him and soon enough he was thrusting so hard the table began shifting on the floor and Belle, who was holding onto the sides of the table, was yelping with each forceful push. He stepped along with the table, dropping his hand to begin to caress her right at the point they were joined together.

His Belle had exploded around him, screaming his name, her muscles contracting around him and pulling him over the edge with her. "Hellfire!" she'd heard him curse as he relinquished his life force into her and then collapsed on top of her, her trembling legs sliding down on each side of his body. She brought her hand up to stroke the side of his face, brushing his hair back with her fingers.

"Didn't make it to the bed again," he said once he'd regained his breathing.

"Well, we'll have to try again later," she kissed him as he helped her sit up, her legs wobbly with the aftershocks of the intense orgasm he'd just provided her.

"I don't have anything against doing you in a bed," he assured her. "It's that you're so damn sexy, I get caught up in the moment."

"I liked it, or couldn't you tell," she told him.

"I could tell," he told her, kissing the top of her head. "Come on, we're going to try this right."

This time he did get her back into the bedroom and much later, she went to sleep lying on his chest.

# # # # #

She woke up still cradled in his arms. She was on her back and he was lying next to her looking down at her. She startled, "Oh!"

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I am," she told him, lifting her head to kiss him on the chin. "How come I feel things with you I've never felt with anyone else?"

"Hell, I don't know. But I feel the same way about you."

"What should we do?" She relaxed against him. "Do we just take it day by day?"

"Let's do that for a little while," he agreed.

"What if we still feel this way in . . . what? six months, a year?" she asked him.

"I'd be agreeable to making it permanent," he told her without hesitation.

"I'd like that."

-the end-

**Thanks to all those who read, followed, favorited, and reviewed this story, including those recent reviewers RaFire, Wondermorena, cynicsquest, orthankg1, kagi-chan2, Grace5231973, jewel415, deweymay, Robin4, Erik'sTrueAngel, Rebecca (Guest)(Chapter 3), MyraValhallah, Aletta-Feather (Chapters 13 and 14). **

**A.N. This story is based on a classic Film Noir movie, **_**Laura**_**. If you aren't familiar with this genre, these movies are populated by hard-boiled men, femme fatale women and gritty dialogue. **_** Laura**_** starred Gene Tierney as Laura, Dana Andrews as the Detective McPherson and Clifton Webb as the urbane newspaper columnist and radio commentator Waldo Lydecker. The murder victim was Diane Redfern - I kept the last name but altered the character to a clear Belle-look-alike with Lacey. Some of the dialogue is lifted from the film. **

**I found that some parts were made to order: Lacey as the victim (because of the physical resemblance to Belle), Cora as the cougar, Killian as the smarmy fiancé, Gold as the bitter detective and (what triggered me to write the damn thing) Belle as Laura (another character describes Laura as someone who finds good in everyone and if she can't find good, she puts it there – when I heard that I pretty much wet myself and the story spewed forth). **

**I did make significant changes in the story line – when I started writing it up I discovered plot holes I could drive a truck through. It also wrote up into only about five chapters and I wanted something a little meatier, so I added more of the investigation (I really like having Jefferson and Emma in my stories), modernized the police methods and added a little more depth and a little more heat to the Laura/Detective relationship. Laura also didn't seem the least concerned that a brutal murder was committed in her apartment, which I didn't think was consistent for her sensitive character – having Belle freaked out about the murder gave me the opportunity to throw Gold into the role as protector. I also, obviously, changed the perpetrator.**

**(Spoiler Alert) In the movie Lydecker is the murderer (Regina's role). The character is a remarkably deep and complex individual (given that these movies were churned out and little effort towards character development was attempted). The character is subtly, but unmistakably, gay. He loves Laura as the perfect woman and with a purity of heart and soul. But he cannot compete with straight males who can offer Laura a carnal relationship – he is particularly distressed at the growing relationship between the returned-from-the-grave Laura and the hot (but conflicted) police officer who is openly courting Laura (while simultaneously arresting her**** for the murder).**** There was just no OUAT parallel to this extraordinary character – Regina with her own complex history was as close as I could come. **

**I hope everyone enjoyed this and will forgive the changes that I felt were necessary to make things work when merging the two. Thx so much.**

**Several people have asked what I have next. I have any number of stories in the hopper but none are singing to me at the moment and I will likely take a week or more off to work on things and regroup. - love to all - twyla**


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